Small Acts of Kindness
by Mockorange7
Summary: In their world, kindness and cruelty were often just two sides of the same thing. This time, it starts with a successfully executed mission. But ... Aya had always said that any idiot could find a target, getting away clean was the trick. Ran/Ken.
1. Chapter 1: Prologue

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_Abbreviated Author's notes:_

(1) Disclaimer: These characters, this universe, this concept—none of these is owned by me, and I have no claim to any of them. But—this universe contains pretty angsty florist assassins! You expect me to resist that? You fool! You fool! I will return everything in its original packaging when I'm done. Promise.

(3) Summary: Sometimes, kindness and cruelty are just two sides of the same thing. Mostly about Ken, but there's Aya too.

(3) Warning: Like each new fic I write, this is an experiment for me. This is unfortunately unbeta'd, which means that I may later edit/alter/delete at will. Also, this is part of a longer thing, but I think this bit—which is both the first bit and somehow separate, could stand alone. This fic is rated, like all my fic, whatever adult themes is rated these days. There may well be suggestions of all kinds of horrible violence, sexual themes, same-sex pairings, opposite-sex pairings, Mary Sues, and other things you should be old to read. Or at least 18 years old. Plus this is set in anime-fandom Japan, where there may well be donut shops on every corner. Don't read this if you are young, or easily offended, or don't like the dark. However, there is nothing very explicit here. If you were looking for steamy, graphic, or titillating, this is not your fic. Go away. Go away fast.

(4) I adore feedback, both positive and negative. I want to know what you really think, or if you notice mistakes, or if you have a good recipe for chocolate soup. It would make me happy ... please? Pretty please, with a pretty boy of your choice on top?

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Small Acts of Kindness _

by Mockorange7

Prologue (Part 1)

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The room was full of quiet, and full of noise. 

There was the noise of flesh hitting steel, and steel biting flesh, of gasping and crying and screaming in pain.

There was the quiet of steps trained for stealth, of a hand muffling voice, of the final noiselessness of death.

There was the girl, lying at Ken's feet. She was young—maybe his own age, at most—and pretty, with long pale hair and wide brown eyes. She had been part of the child slavery ring; had lured the merchandise—younger, maybe even some older--with sweet smiles and promises of candy or money or both. He'd watched her on the monitor, helpless to change anything, while she dispassionately suffocated one of the younger kids—a little boy, not more than three or four--who wouldn't stop screaming when he discovered where he was.

She too was both noisy and quiet, making soft sounds of wordless agony that echoed in Ken's ears and shrieked and rang through his head. Her own blood pooled around her, the end of a small dart stuck out of the side of her neck as she lay, dying but not yet dead. Her face was the picture of untold suffering. Omi must be experimenting with a new toxin, Ken thought absently. He was usually faster than that.

It took less than a minute, less time than it had taken for her to suffocate the little boy, for Ken to reach down and quickly, painlessly, silence her in turn.

Blood burbled up through the girl's open mouth even after he knew she was dead. Ken wiped his weapon carefully on a piece of her skirt. He noticed the crest of a local school on her shirt, a bracelet made from thread on her delicate wrist. Watching her face, her large dark eyes and long pale hair and hand clutching uselessly at air, he thought she reminded him of a girl he'd once known. A friend, from that life he'd once had.

* * *

It was quiet, as they drove home after that mission, none of them much in the mood for chatter. It had been one of their worst in recent weeks—the slave runners had killed many of the kids when they'd discovered the serious security breach, and then an alarm had been tripped, somehow—Kritiker had either left something out, or hadn't been thorough, or maybe, they just hadn't cared. There had been, rather than the easy in, easy out: a lot of screaming and even more blood, blood; a little girl, no more than eight or nine years old, crying and shaking, backed in a corner and holding a knife; a pile of warm, small bodies with wide, staring eyes; nightmarish pictures on the wall of terrified, naked children that made the gorge rise in their throats. 

Through it all, Ken had just done the job, trying to close off his brain, trying not to think, trying not to remember, even now. He assumed the others had done the same.

The moment they had left, the sound of sirens ringing in their ears and mingling with the eerie sobs of the little girl they'd all simply left alone for the police to find, still cringing in her corner, Yohji had begun smoking like his life depended on it, making it a point of not touching any of the others, sitting apart and away and self-contained. Aya, driving even more precisely than usual, was his own world of silent and expressionless, the remote cast of his features a warning. Omi, who tended to like the connection of casual conversation on the way back, was as silent as Aya, sitting still and carefully not looking at any of the others as they drove home, covered in sweat and blood and things best not spoken of.

Each of them separated as soon as the car stopped, going up to their apartments without any words being exchanged. Ken knew they'd likely each come down to breakfast in the morning and by then, the distance brought by a scorching shower, a few hours' drug-induced sleep, and the morning sun might, might silence the screaming in all of their heads, just enough.

In his apartment, door closed and locked and dead-bolted twice, he cleaned his weapon, and threw his clothes in a corner, and let the water scald his skin until it was almost as red as the blood being washed away.

He was in the shower for more than a half hour. Even after he emerged, skin angry red and wrinkled, dressed in a concealing, over-large sweatshirt and track pants, he still felt unclean; still felt naked and exposed in the small, cramped apartment.

He sat on his bed in his empty apartment for a time, and contemplated the small white pills in the bottle in his hand. When it came to drugs, Kritiker gave them whatever they wanted. These, he knew, would allow him to forget, allow him silence, allow him sleep. Omi had given them each a bottle. He knew Omi took them after almost every mission.

Ken sat on his bed. He hadn't slept in it in over two months. He wondered, as he did every night, if he would tonight. He wondered if he would sleep at all.

It was much later that night when Ken got up, and went to his door, and locked it behind him. He knocked softly on the door of another apartment. He waited. He raised his hand again, and hesitated. He turned away.

Aya might have taken the pills, and been deeply asleep himself. Aya might have wanted to be left alone. Aya might ... But the door opened.

Aya didn't say anything when he saw Ken standing there, dressed in loose pyjama bottoms and his ratty old practice jersey, holding his pillow. Aya didn't even raise an eyebrow, or do much of anything, except leave the door open and wordlessly pad back to the bed, getting back in and lying down.

Ken didn't move for a few minutes. He stood still in the doorway, and watched Aya watch him impassively from the bed. Aya's room was neat and tidy. It smelled fresh and clean. There was a cool breeze from the window, soft shadows made by moonlight on the floor. Ken looked at down at his hands, where they clutched the pillow. They looked clean as well, the skin smooth and unbroken except for where he'd pricked himself badly on a rose thorn, earlier in the day. For the second time that night, Ken began to turn away.

Aya's deep voice broke the silence. "Come in and close the door, Ken," said Aya, his voice rough with sleep. "It's late. It's time for bed."

Ken opened his mouth, but no words came out. But Aya had given him an order, and so he did as Aya said, and closed the door, and moved toward the bed. Aya, lying motionless on his side, reached over and tugged down the sheet, and Ken got in, awkwardly, moving closer to Aya, and closer yet, until he simply folded himself into Aya's embrace, rubbing his cheek along a length of pale skin and damp hair. Aya moved then, pulled him close and wrapped strong arms around him, holding him safe. "It's ok, Ken," whispered Aya, his breath warm in Ken's ear, the beat of his heart steady, "you can sleep now."

Ken let out the breath he'd been holding, and somewhere, somehow, something small inside of him relaxed. He buried his head in the hollow between Aya's neck and shoulder, and allowed the dark of sleep to claim him, shutting out both the noise and the quiet with the soft, even sounds of Aya's breath.

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_End part one._


	2. Chapter 2: Intertia

_Note: Please read disclaimers and warnings prior to Chapter 1, as they continue to apply._

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_Chapter 2: Inertia_

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For a long time, almost as long as he could remember, Aya had wanted Ken. 

It was what, Aya had supposed, once, had precipitated their fight, when he had first joined Weiss, until he realized that their fight had had nothing to do with desire, and everything to do with, just, well, the situation.

He hadn't wanted Ken then, and he knew Ken hadn't wanted him. But after those first few days, Ken had been kind to him. Ken had been kind to him in that careless way that Ken had with everyone he had more or less accepted into his life, which wasn't really kindness at all, and was just, well, _Ken._ A careless arm thrown over Aya's shoulders after a successful mission, a warm grin after a long shift, an inviting laugh when he described how his kids had just won a game.

Simple. Honest. Open. True. These things were Ken, and they drew Aya, despite himself, even as he held himself apart.

But his desire made him uncomfortable, his discomfort made him awkward, and his awkwardness made him fearful, and so he avoided Ken, and resented Ken, and was harsher than usual in Ken's presence, calling him idiot and clumsy and glaring at him scornfully, refusing to allow himself to admit his attraction, refusing to allow others to notice it, refusing to allow himself to become a ridiculous pining mockery.

Nevertheless, he had taken to watching Ken, when he thought Ken didn't notice, when he thought no one would. Noticed how he moved—graceful and sure when he was fine, and clumsy and awkward when he was not. Noticed how he laughed when upset, noticed the the light in his eyes that brightened and faded and every so often, dimmed almost completely; noticed the sadness that cloaked him on darker days.

Aya watched. Quietly, and carefully, and nothing might have come of it, until ...

Until that mission that had ended with the charred bodies and burnt flesh, and Ken who didn't sleep for weeks afterwards, despite Omi's cajoling, until Omi's threats to tell Kritiker if Ken didn't fix the problem, and then ... and then, who knew what happened. Some nights after their screaming match, Yohji playing peacemaker and Aya acting as much like wallpaper as he could, Aya had come down, early in the morning, to find a lump of blankets on the mission room couch, soccer games playing on satellite, and Ken apparently fast asleep in front of it. Ken's breathing pattern was just slightly too quick and too shallow for actual sleep, but it was none of Aya's business. Yet Aya sat beside him anyway, and the shift roused Ken, confused and defenceless and in that undisguised moment, visibly hurting, and Aya couldn't, couldn't not draw Ken into a strong, careful embrace; just for a moment, just for once.

Until the practice session a few weeks later, where he'd tackled Ken, and fell on Ken, and was flush against Ken, and in that moment, that moment before he had been able to find the biting, angry words he knew he had to say, that moment when he felt his desire flare and was powerless to stop it--in that moment he glimpsed a dawning, unexpected realization in Ken's eyes, saw a rising blush on Ken's face, and felt an answering flash of desire along Ken's body. But then the insulting, accusing words were already out of Aya's unthinking mouth and hanging between them in the air, and Ken's blush changed to chagrin and embarrassment and answering fury, and the moment was lost.

Until that mission, and after, when Ken had come to him. Come to him, and Aya was never quite sure why, was never quite sure what had made Ken seek out his room in lieu of his own couch, in lieu of the downstairs couch, in lieu of Omi's or Yohji's room. In the morning, Ken had been gone, and they hadn't spoken of it again.

And despite these things, still, nothing might have come of it.

Except.

Except for Yohji.

"Aya," said Yohji, one dark and miserable evening about three days later, smirking like crazy, "our Kenken has a crush on you!"

"Yes," said Aya, in that curt, implacable way he had cultured. It would be undignified to argue. It would not help his purposes to be defensive. But ... damn Yohji. Damn.

"You know?" Yohji, wind taken out of his sails, deflated. He'd been working up to this for months, had been sure that Aya was completely oblivious, had been sure Aya had long harboured his own little crush.

Besides, teasing was no fun when the object of your teasing failed to respond.

"Yes."

"So ... " Yohji said, not yet completely daunted, and not entirely sure if Aya was just feigning knowledge. A hint of sly innuendo slipped back into his voice. "Whatever are you going to do about it?"

Aya looked up at Yohji then, his gaze intent and lacking all humour. "I'm not sure."

"Aya," said Yohji hesitantly, after a moment of startled silence, his voice trailing off, before he repeated the name, voice more sure, all trace of mockery gone. "Aya. Don't hurt him." It was both plea and warning.

Aya merely nodded in acknowledgement, and Yohji's eyes narrowed. Yohji's voice, when he spoke next, was low, dead serious, and pure threat "I mean it, Aya. Don't. Hurt. Ken."

And Aya was again sharply reminded that he was the newest member of the team. That before he'd arrived, Yohji and Ken and Omi had been a team, and—despite how absolutely self-destructive Aya logically thought it was to allow any personal feelings towards men who played with death--men who were already dead and were living on borrowed time—that they'd been friends, and close. That even after his arrival, they'd still looked out for each other, and without him. That sometimes, they still did.

But Aya merely grunted in response, the small sound dismissing both the conversation and Yohji together. But Yohji's words had already done their damage. Yohji's words had made him think—and worse, his acknowledgement of Yohji's words had made it necessary for him to act.

He just wasn't sure how.

* * *

"Idiot".

Ken smiled ruefully at Aya's retreating back, before looking down at the broken pieces of pottery lying on the floor. The noise had caused Aya to come at a run from the shop—and then leave once he'd established the lack of blood and danger. Just Ken, being Ken.

Ken, who had been injured in the mission last night—a nasty slash across his bicep that would heal, but twinged at the most inopportune times—and who hadn't said anything, because there had been no point. It didn't quite need stitches, and he wasn't so stupid that he wouldn't mention it if it wasn't healed enough by the next mission. It did, however, make him drop that stupid cheap-ass bowl that Yohji had got at the market on sale last week. Now he knew why it had been so cheap. Aya had said as much, he recalled, but Yohji had liked the colour.

And the appearance of Aya, even glaring at him—the appearance of Aya, with concern deep in his eyes if you knew to look—the appearance of Aya brightened his day, just enough.

Ken knew he wanted Aya in part because he was attractive. If truth be told, so were a lot of people, including his other teammates. But now Aya was more than just attractive, and Ken was more than not indifferent—although Ken had never been, from the moment Aya had walked in the door with his beauty and arrogance and aloof, superior attitude, indifferent. But in all honesty, in wasn't just that Aya was – well, actually, absolutely gorgeous -- that made the difference.

There had been a time when he hadn't been sure Aya was capable of caring--not as a teammate and _de facto_ field leader, but as a friend, a brother-by-circumstance, one of Weiss. There had been a time when Ken had been convinced that Aya purposely held himself apart, that he thought he was better than the rest of them—an attitude that irked Ken, particularly, of all the rest, because Ken had worked so hard and for so long to make something of himself, before it had been taken away. And because neither Omi nor Yohji had ever, ever made him feel ... less, not good enough. Unworthy, as he'd often felt as a kid, as Aya seemed to. There had been a time that Ken had been convinced that while Ken might want Aya, he could never like Aya—and Ken worked hard to maintain that illusion to himself.

Sure, there had been the time that Aya ha'd yelled unrestrainedly at Yohji (who at the time had been, unfortunately, drugged and only semi-conscious and unable to appreciate the full beauty of Aya in a rage) when a moment of distraction had gotten the blonde playboy shot and nearly killed. And when Yohji had been healed, he'd insisted that Yohji run drills with him, over and over and over, until he'd been assured—and more importantly, once Yohji had been assured—that the slip, a weakness in Yohji's near-perfect technique would not occur again. The time he'd yelled at Ken, for being foolish enough to get sick as a dog after playing an impromptu game of soccer in the rain, but had then bought all of Ken's favorite foods for the next few days in an attempt to tempt an uncertain appetite. The time he'd volunteered, after an exhausting mission, to sit up through the night with a concussed Omi, and had not complained when this had also involved cleaning up both kid and bedsheets when Omi had been sick, twice in the same night.

But all this could be—and Aya certainly encouraged this interpretation—chalked up to good leadership—ensuring your teammates were well and able to function adequately for the next mission. As a field leader, Aya was very, very good.

It didn't, in Ken's mind, explain everything else. Why he'd always be the one to pick up a drunk Yohji on particularly bad nights, why he always remembered to tape Ken's soccer games when Ken was injured or ill, why he'd always make sure to call the school and pick up Omi's homework when Omi had been busy with a mission, why he'd ...

Why he'd held Ken safe, that night, and hadn't mocked him, even once, after.

It wasn't until Ken started noticing those little things, that he'd really noticed Aya. And while good leadership maybe didn't quite explain all those other actions, it did explain, quite nicely, why it was that Ken was falling in love with him.

But it didn't matter. There wasn't anything Ken ever planned on doing about it.

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_End Chapter 2: Thanks for reading._


	3. Chapter 3: Simple Things

_A/N: Thanks much to everyone who has reviewed. I am deeply grateful for each and every one. _

_Also, it has spurred me to write faster! That, coupled with there wasn't quite enough new fic posted for me to read this week, and I was forced to write instead. Or if there was, I didn't see it. In any event, I blame you entirely. This one's short, though. Please note I'm posting as I go, because ah am a wild and crazy thang, so parts may change later._

_The regular warnings and cautions and disclaimers from Chapter 1 still apply. Please read them first._

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_Chapter 3: Simple Things_

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It had been a Sunday when Aya first kissed him. 

Ken wasn't sure why it was a Sunday, or why he should remember that. Omi had been working out the schedule in the kitchen, he remembered, and he'd been eating noodles and laughing at Omi's frustrated mutterings as he'd tried to accommodate everyone's various limitations and commitments. Because on the first Sunday of every month, Omi worked out the shift schedule after dinner.

The rest of them had learnt to make sure they were there—if Omi had questions, if they had commitments, if they just didn't want to get stuck with doing every morning shift for two weeks straight.

There were certain givens. Omi did not do the day shift on weekdays. Ken himself did not do the evening shift on Monday, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Yohji did not do the morning shift on weekends, the evening shift on Friday, and couldn't be relied upon to do an early shift alone _ever_.

So Omi usually took the early shift on weekends, and Ken took early shifts on weekdays. Aya was the most flexible and reliable of the four, and didn't mind working extra shifts for the extra cash; Omi was the least flexible, and Yohji the least reliable.

It made working out the shift schedule a bit of a game.

"I can't do next Wednesday night, chibi, I've got a date. That means Thursday morning is out as well." Yohji's light drawl.

"I can't do the following Saturday, Omi, I've got a tournament for the kids." Ken, apologetically.

"I've taken a recon solo mission Tuesday night, Omi, so I'm off on Monday and Tuesday, and likely Wednesday morning as well." Aya's deep, serious tones. "Nothing dangerous, very routine," he added, in response to the raised eyebrow from Yohji and the slanted looks of concern from the younger two.

"And I've got _another_ project for school so I won't be able to do the Sunday afternoon shift as I usually do ..." Omi murmured distractedly, as he looked critically over the calendar.

It had been relaxed, that Sunday in the Koneko, as they'd sat around, all four of them, eating and joking and preparing for the week ahead. No major missions, no major injuries, and they'd just finished a mission that week, so all of them were financially sound. It had been a good day.

And later that evening, after hours and days and weeks of careful touches and cautious words and comfort in the night, Aya had pulled him aside, and spoke to him, and smiled at him, just at him, in that way he had. And when Aya smiled ... it had been an even better day.

And then Aya had kissed him, and it had been ... it had been ...

Just as simple, and as beautiful, as the arrangements Aya worked on so meticulously.

Just as easy, and as natural, as the best things in his life had always been.

It had been downright amazing.

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_Short chapter. Thanks again for reading._


	4. Chapter 4: Learning Joy

_A/N: Please note that this part specifically is rated at least M for sexual situations. All disclaimers and warnings continue to apply; please refer to notes before the Prologue. _

_As you may have come to notice, these are more like linked stories than chapters, so please feel freeto skip this one, if you prefer; if not, you have been warned; proceed with caution. _

_Thanks again to all who have reviewed; they are both encouragement and reward, and I sincerely treasure each one. And thanks to you for __still reading._

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_Chapter 4: Learning Joy_

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Aya was angry with Kritiker, sometimes, for taking Ken. For all of them, but for maybe Omi and Ken most of all. Omi, for taking a traumatized child and twisting and forging that into something they could use, and Ken—Ken, for taking someone so innocent—and yes, for all his passion and bluster, Ken was still the most innocent of them all, too trusting and defenseless in all the ways that matter—for preying on the vulnerability of a betrayed and pain-wracked young Ken, and capitalizing on that moment to create a killer out of the gentle nature. He and Yohji had both been adults when they'd started, but Ken and Omi ... they'd been orphans, and they'd been kids. 

But he knew that but for Kritiker, he may never have met Ken, and although he hated himself for it, that idea seemed like too much of a loss for him to be anything but deeply disturbed by the thought.

Catch 22. It seemed his whole life had become a series of them.

Still ... he was sitting in a soccer field, contentedly watching Ken shout instructions at a group of small boys, and he refused to think too deeply about any of it. The sun was shining. It was quiet, and peaceful, and he was enjoying himself, watching Ken.

Things were the way they were, and despite everything, he had found a measure of happiness, and he wouldn't worry about whether or not he deserved it, wouldn't worry, not right now, about whether or not it would last.

Ken jogged over, and ducking discreetly behind a convenient copse of trees, kissed him, not long, but hard and deep and Aya smiled despite himself, as Ken as swiftly turned back to the kids who were steps behind him. Ken may have been inexperienced, but he was learning, it seemed.

And it seemed that Aya, who couldn't stop smiling of late, well, he was learning too.

* * *

"Aya?" asked Ken, one night, late. They were alone in the mission room, and Ken's voice was lazy—the voice he used when he was just filling space. Aya had come to recognize it, this satisfied, intimate, comfortable voice. 

"Ran," he said, in answer. "Ran."

"What's that?"

"My name." Aya smiled, just slightly.

"Oh," said Ken, confused, and processing. Ken could be a little slow, sometimes. "I ..."

"Aya is my sister's name," he interrupted, his tone deliberate. "Mine is Ran. You can use it, if you want."

Ken was still muddling. "I'm ... just so used to thinking of you ... as Aya."

Aya laughed suddenly, surprising them both. "I am too, now. Not at first. At first, I used to have to remind myself to answer to her name. I'd forget, all the time, until one of you became annoyed enough to remind me that I was supposed to answer to her name. But ... when we're alone, if it's ok, I'd like it, sometimes, if you could ... call me by my own name. To remind me. Call me Ran." There was a shy note in his voice that he hadn't intended, and couldn't control. Ken looked up, then, and there were a dozen unasked questions in his eyes, and a strange and worrisome look Aya couldn't interpret, and Aya didn't know what Ken was thinking because Ken didn't say anything at all.

The clock ticked, in the background.

Then abruptly, Ken lunged forward, and kissed him, hard and deep. "Ran," he said, his voice low and deep and possessive, and Ken smiled. "Ran. You're mine, Ran. You're mine."

* * *

"Ran, whispered Ken, in the dark of Aya's bedroom, with the only light that of the moon filtered through thin curtains, "Ran, what's wrong?" 

They had been kissing, and touching, and generally making out. But this was the first time Aya had invited Ken into his bedroom. The first time, in fact, he'd let Ken in.

In the three weeks since they'd confessed that that Sunday, in the three weeks since they'd ... well, whatever—in those three weeks, it had always been Aya calling the shots. Every now and again, Ken would do something surprising--something aggressive, something possessive—calling him "mine", initiating a kiss, albeit apologizing immediately after—but more often than not, he had been very careful to let Aya take charge. Just like the Sunday that had started everything off—Aya decided what, he decided when, and he decided if he was in the mood.

It made sense, thought Aya, trying to reason through it. He was the older one, the wiser one, the one with more experience. On top of that, Ken had all those unresolved issues from his previous relationships, desperate for a love that he had repeatedly been told he did not deserve.

So sometimes Aya worried—before that Sunday, Ken had seemed far more sure of himself, far more free—and now, he seemed more hesitant, more careful. But Ken was as considerate and caring a boyfriend as Aya had ever dreamed of having, and everything Aya had known having Ken in his life could be, and so he really didn't feel entitled to question anything. Although he wasn't even sure that he had the right to call Ken his boyfriend, because he'd never really talked with Ken about that, and Ken, in his cautiousness and despite his reputation for bluntness, delicately avoided even suggesting anything more than ... well, what did they have? Some groping, some kissing, some heavy breathing. Shared evenings and shared dinners. Indulgent smiles from Yohji, and happy glances from Omi. Wistful looks from Ken he thought Aya didn't notice.

Breathe, he told himself.

Aya didn't, in truth, have a whole lot more experience than Ken.

Aya wasn't a virgin, true enough—but he had been, when his parents had died. He'd been a mild-mannered sort of boy—obedient, thoughtful, polite. He'd been happy to be son, and brother, and student. He'd been happy.

When his world had shattered, that day ... he'd been introduced to a host of emotions that he never knew existed, that he'd never thought to experience, that threatened to overwhelm him. That almost did overwhelm him, if it hadn't been for Kritiker, if it hadn't been for the training, if it hadn't been for the opportunity to focus. He traded emotion for control: for the sake of Aya, for the sake of vengeance. For the possibility of absolution, one day.

Then he'd failed, even at that, and so he'd joined Crashers. And except for the kid, Naru, they'd all been older than him, or seemed so. And they'd all been more ... experienced. Harder. More demanding.

They'd demanded. Each of them, and one of them, and Aya had given in, because it scarcely mattered, and it was foolish, as he'd been told, to have blood outside, and not allow it inside.

So he had. And it had been humiliating, and painful, particularly that first time, he remembered. But it had been over quickly, and he knew what the mystery was about, after. It hadn't been that interesting. Just uncomfortable, and distasteful, although it left him feeling a little more balanced, a little clearer, a little less wild. He wasn't very good at it, said Masato, after, although he'd deserved everything he'd got. Aya—Ran, at the time—couldn't really disagree, because it was no less than the truth. It had gotten marginally less painful, the few other times, with the few other men—some mission related, and some not—and he'd grown to enjoy it, to welcome it, to need the release—but it was always somewhat distasteful to him.

But tonight, he'd asked Ken to come inside, and one thing had led to another, and they'd made out, kissing and groping in the dark because Ken hated being less than fully covered in the light, and Aya had learned that despite Kase, who had insinuated and suggested and manipulated Ken into thinking Ken was using him while badly using Ken, Ken was still very, very inexperienced, and very, very nervous, and Aya was treading carefully.

"Ran," said Ken again, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing," said Aya, panting a little, because making out was, after all, always _involving_, at least. "Nothing at all, I—I always get a little tense," he admitted, prompted by the sincere concern on Ken's face.

"Oh," said Ken, "are you supposed to?"

"Well, if we're ... I mean ..."

"Oh," said Ken, pausing for a moment; a thoughtful, considering look in the dark eyes. "Are we?"

"We could," replied Aya, wondering why it was that Ken invited such absolutely inane conversations. Rook had never spoken, either before or during. Just after. And then, nothing more than a few grunted comments, if that.

"You look like you're waiting to be hurt. Or like you're going to hurt someone." Ken's words were blunt, honest and slightly accusing.

Aya cringed inwardly, but outwardly he smiled, trying to deflect Ken and get back to what was supposed to be the natural, logical progression of their relationship. Ken was not supposed to be the over-analytical one, damn it. "Love is pain."

Ken drew back, and he was frowning. "I don't ... Aya, I don't know, but I don't really think it is supposed to hurt. Not like that."

"I've just ..." Aya shrugged, helpless. "That's the only way I've ever known it."

Ken blushed. "I ... I asked Yohji. I didn't want you to think ... I mean ... I didn't want to do anything wrong, and so ... I asked. Kase and I ... well, we'd never, so... anyway, it doesn't matter. Yohji said ... he said it shouldn't. I mean, he's straight, but he knows a lot. He said if it did ... I would be doing it wrong."

Aya raised an eyebrow. "You asked Yohji?" His tone matched the chill of his expression.

"He said it shouldn't be that way," insisted Ken, unphased and undeterred.

"I don't know any other way," said Aya, helplessly.

"Well ..." said Ken. "Maybe we should find another way." A smile lit and warmed the dark eyes. "I'm sure we could figure it out."

And Ken, for all his reputed clumsiness, had a surprisingly gentle touch and it turned out, in the end, that Yohji had been unaccountably right. There was no blood, and no pain.

In the end, there was only joy.

* * *

_On to Chapter 5 ..._

_

* * *

_


	5. Chapter 5: Finding Balance

_A/N: All disclaimers and warnings continue to apply; please refer to notes before the Prologue. _

_Quick but heartfelt thanks to everyone who has reviewed thus far. I was really nervous about the last part in particular, and the encouraging comments are very much appreciated. Individual thanks will follow at the end of the story, because these notes are already too long! _

_Thanks also to authors Tokagemusume, whose very fine series inspired a piece of dialogue in this bit, and Brelyna of the gorgeous drabbles—I read as much as I can, and sometimes it strikes me later that I have been influenced, although it's more just the idea of something that strikes a chord. Hope you aren't offended._

_Also, because I am indulging myself with long author's notes this chapter, you may have noticed that I have glossed over details better authors than I would not. I have no idea where this is set in any timeline, or if there is one, although Ken is definitely 19 at the beginning of this fic. I don't use any Japanese words, either, because this is an English language fic, even if it is set in my very own fake-fandom-anime-Japan. And, remember, this is a fic set in a world of death and underground evil, so it may be disturbing; be warned and avert your eyes now ... _

_Sorry for the delay in posting this part and apologies in advance with respect to the next. Must remind myself never to post an unbeta'd WIP again—it always seems like such a good idea at the beginning, but I am usually made of sterner stuff ... although I guess at this point, in for a penny ... I did try to rush this part when I could, and so it's kind of choppy-- I may revise the entire thing when I'm done. Who knows? Only the ... well, never you mind who knows. Reviews will influence future revisions! Or sequels! Or speed! Or all of that! And that brings me to ..._

_As always, all reviews and comments most welcome, Please note both positive and negative feedback is appreciated, and if anyone wishes to send a private e-mail instead, you may do so at mockorange7 at yahoo dot ca. _

* * *

_Chapter 5: Finding Balance_

* * *

The next morning, of course, Aya started thinking, and that's when things went wrong.

Aya woke alone, to the faint sound of the shower, and a still warm indent beside him in the bed.

Ken wandered in then, a few minutes later, towel wrapped around his waist, another being used to rub his hair--just as Aya had decided he'd made a huge mistake. Ken took one look at the non-expression on Aya's face, and dropped one hip to sit on the bed in that unconsciously graceful way he had whenever he wasn't thinking about it.

"What's wrong?"

"You shouldn't use two towels for your shower," snapped Aya. "Only women do that. It's wasteful." The words were out of his mouth, and while he hadn't intended for them to be so harsh, he was inexplicably angry, and Ken was ... _there. _And right now, Ken was irritating the hell out of him.

"It's ... wasteful?" Aya watched Ken's expression cloud, watched the anger spark in his eyes and a hint of hurt twist his features, and something dark in Aya leapt in glee.

Then Ken's eyes narrowed, and the piercing look in those deep brown eyes made Aya extremely nervous. Aya had almost moved to get out of the bed when a damp hand clamped down hard on his wrist, pinning him in place. "Ran. What's really wrong?"

And Aya looked up at Ken, gentle concern on Ken's face, and sighed. All the thoughts he'd had about Ken destroying his focus, distracting him ... his admonitions to himself about concentration and responsibility and ... with Ken looking at him, sincere and anxious, those thoughts no longer seemed so important. They no longer seemed to matter.

Aya took a breath and let it go, and looked up at Ken, and smiled. "Nothing." Aya smiled, grin broadening at the doubtful look Ken gave him, and all of the darkness bled away. "Really, Ken. I'm ... sorry." The words of apology were almost awkward from years of self-imposed training to admit no regret, no weakness, no .. sorrow. But he genuinely wanted Ken to know he was sorry—to know he hadn't meant to snap, and hadn't meant to cause even that faint shadow over Ken's dark eyes.

Because right then, in spite of everything, Aya could almost believe, almost believe that life was bright and good and worth bothering for, and as quick as the anger had been to rise, it faded away, leaving only that scary, frightening happiness. So Aya leaned forward, and kissed Ken, and told Ken, without words, that Ken was good, and beautiful, and wonderful, and perfect, and all kinds of things Aya didn't say and knew he could never say. And in the shape and taste and feel of Ken's mouth, in the joy and wonder of Ken, Aya managed to forget that he was happy, and that he was not permitted to be.

Because right then, except for Ken, nothing else really mattered.

* * *

So as the last days of summer melted into fall, Ken was reluctantly forced to confess--to an openly teasing and secretly delighted Aya, that he could no longer sleep properly in his own bed. He'd taken to sleeping in Aya's--or sleeping on the mission-room couch, Aya had noticed, if Aya wasn't around.

Until a standard mission involving corrupt politicians, on which Ken and Yohji had reportedly found in a basement room three small, charred bodies in early stages of decay. Yohji had told him about it quietly, in flat tones; at the time, busy with wrap-up, Aya had dismissed it. He didn't know why Yohji had bothered to tell him; it was Kritker's business, and Kritiker would figure out who the victims were and why. But coming back, there had been a look in Ken's eyes that caused Yohji to look worried and had flat-out scared Aya, and Aya was grateful to the older man. Ken wouldn't look at Aya, at all, the whole drive back.

Had immediately gone upstairs--and locked the door to his room—the moment he got home. Had spent a long time in the shower, while Aya waited, hearing the faint sound of pelting water, exchanging a glance with Yohji as he passed Aya on his own way upstairs, until Aya got tired of waiting in front of Ken's door, and went to his own room to take his own shower.

And still Aya had waited. But Ken didn't come, and didn't respond to the telephone, or to the soft knock at his door.

And eventually, Aya had crawled into bed; alone, hurting, and worried for Ken.

And had woken instantly from a light, fitful sleep to the soft knock at the door, revealing, when he hurried to open it: Ken, standing there, pillow in his hands, and expression ready to flee. Eerily reminiscent of a time, many months ago. And just as he'd done then, Aya had backed away, not wanting to spook him, sensing that anything could. Anything would. So he'd backed away, and let Ken come to him. Let Ken call the shots. And breathed a sigh of relief that Ken did.

And when Ken leant forward, searching in the dark, and kissed Aya, it was soft and sweet, his hair silky and shampoo-scented, his skin warm. But Ken's muscles remained tense underneath, and expectant, and there was a desperation to his movements. And still Ken said nothing, moving gently over Aya, his touch soothing, his lips restoring, and under him, Aya soared and shattered and then lay quietly, the sound of Ken's heartbeat in his ears.

They lay together afterwards, for a time, in the dark.

"Promise me something," Ken said suddenly, seriously, into the darkness; the first words he'd spoken all night.

"Right now, whatever you want, you can probably have," answered Aya, languid and sated and Ken's serious tone not really penetrating. "Except my Porsche. That's mine."

Aya's voice was as lacking in any inflection as it usually was, but Ken heard the humour in it, and made a half-hearted attempt at a playful swat in response. "Idiot." He paused. "No, really, Aya."

"Whatever you want, Ken." Suddenly alert, Aya's voice was now just as somber as Ken's own.

"I ... if anything happens, I want to know, I want you to ..."

Ken suddenly found himself lying on his back, violet eyes glinting fiercely down at him. "Nothing is going to happen, Ken," Aya growled angrily. His voice was determined, as if Aya could prevent anything bad from happening by sheer will alone. And Ken knew that if anyone could, Aya would be that person. "Nothing at all."

Ken faltered slightly in the grip of that icy glare. "I ... I know. But ... just in case ..."

"I don't want to talk about this," said Aya, with finality, rolling over and turning his head away. Ken moved tentatively behind him.

"I ... Aya, I do. I want to know ... Ran, I need to know. If anything happened to me, I need to know you'll move on. I want you to promise. Anything can happen. Especially ... well, we're _assassins_, Ran. I don't want to feel guilty while I'm with you. I can't worry when I'm ... not with you. I don't want to feel like, I'm with you, and you will revert back to where you were after Aya and ... I just want to know you'd be okay and ..."

"I don't want to talk about this!" Aya got up, and started pulling on his pants. Movements agitated, any hope of a peaceful, restoring sleep shattered.

Ken sat up too, climbed out of the bed. "Please, Ran." He reached out a hand towards Ran, where he stood frozen in a patch of moonlight, the pale light glinting off ivory skin, and Ken shivered. In the dim light, Aya looked beautiful: exquisite and remote, like a statue of hard marble.

And Ken started speaking again, babbling, barely coherent, his voice low and almost incomprehensible. "I ... I know you Aya. I know what you were like when you first come to the Koneko, and don't even want to imagine what you'd been like when you first went into Kritiker. I ... I don't want to. And ... if I couldn't, I ... I don't want ... " And Ken _didn't_ want to imagine the state Aya had been in, at that time, to accept the bargain Kritker had offered: to kill on demand, in return for money to keep his sister alive. Deep down, Aya was gentle, and noble, and idealistic. "I know, and trust, that Yohji and Omi would help you, look after you, if there was ever need. And you'd do the same for them. But ... I need to know, too, that you'd cooperate. I need you to agree to let them."

A tear glinted suddenly on Aya's cheek, and he turned his head. "Fine," he snapped suddenly. "If you are such an idiot as to get yourself killed, you have my assurance that I won't waste my time mourning you."

Ken smiled, a little. Aya certainly could be dramatic, and he loved him for it. "Aya. That's only part of it. I also want you to promise—if anything happens to me, and I'm ... well--you won't stay with me out of pity. I don't want ... I would hate to burden you like that. You ... you already have your sister, and ... " Ken's voice shook a little, uncertain. He looked away.

This was the harder part. This was the part that was difficult to imagine. Death was easy. It was almost familiar, a part of his life—the knowledge that he dispersed it, and that it could disperse him. But ... the idea of living—disabled, or maimed—that was also real, and that knowledge was, at his age and with his love of life—well, as much as they all danced with death on a regular basis, he really tried not to think about it. Kritker, though, they usually killed agents who were no longer useful to them, Ken was pretty sure. So maybe there wouldn't be much of a difference. He didn't like thinking about it, all the same. The point was, he might not always be around, and he needed to know ...

Then Aya's lips were on his, and this kiss was warm, and soft, and soul searchingly deep, before pulling back, looking at him intently. "Ken. What brought this on?"

Ken shrugged, slightly, trying to look away. "I've just been thinking ... "

"Well, stop." Aya's fingers had grasped his chin in a bruising grip, and Aya's voice was equally hard. "I'm not sure if you are trying to scare me or yourself, but either way, it's too late now. So I'll say this once. You can't scare me off, Ken. I love you, as much an idiot as that makes me. So. The first I've promised you. The second I won't. One thing I can promise you though, is this: I would never stay with you—or anyone—out of pity. I do not love because of pity. Do not demean me—either of us--by suggesting such a thing ever again."

Ken, looking into those glittering, rock-hard eyes, could only nod in agreement, completely stunned, and repeating the words in his head. Aya loved him. Aya loved him. Aya loved him.

_Aya loved him._

"You love me?"

"Fool. Moron. Dumbass. Do you think I'd put up with you otherwise?"

Suddenly anxious, and although Aya didn't look like he was waiting, Ken babbled the words in a panicked rush. "Aya ... Ran. I love you too. You know that, right?"

Aya glared, but it was softened by the threatening smile. "Idiot. Of course I do. It amazes me that you did not know the same."

But wrapping Ken in his arms, brown hair soft against his cheek, and holding Ken safe through one more night, it was a long time before Aya found sleep.

They'd never discussed it again.

* * *

In the early days, Ken had gleefully and stubbornly clung to the fact that they were in love—which should have made everything so much better. He'd thought that until Aya had finally snapped at him one day—in the middle of a screaming match which had involved, of all things, Ken's messy room and Aya's constant re-organizing of Ken's things--to stop expecting bliss. Several missions later, in the middle of a chilly November rainstorm, Aya was injured—when he very prosaically slipped while jumping from a water-slick fourth-floor window onto a lower roof below--and broke three ribs, and didn't say anything until they were back at the Koneko _six hours later_. So aside from the painful shivering and the broken ribs, Aya got a tongue-lashing from an irate and worried Omi, a serious of bitingly sarcastic insults from Yohji, and angry and reproachful glances from a fretful Ken, all of whom were immune to Aya's by then fevered and slightly unfocussed glares. Between the three of them, Aya found himself stripped, washed, taped and medicated, before Ken half-dragged, half-carried him up to bed, where he had threatened creative and dire bodily harm if Aya even thought of getting up before_ Ken_ had decided it was okay. And it was right around then that Ken completely gave up on bliss, and decided he would settle for anything less than constant irritation.

Turned out Ken needn't have worried about Aya going anyplace, because by the next morning, it was clear that Aya had also developed pneumonia. It wasn't that he hadn't _tried_, Ken defended himself to himself, it was just that Aya was sick, and Aya was horrible when he was sick—unlike Ken himself. Of course, when _Ken_ had been sick in the past, Aya had been quite horrible—nagging and pestering and condemning—without foundation, Ken added to himself as he reached yet again for some magical source of patience that was rapidly growing thin—so you'd think he'd be angelic himself when he was sick. But no. When Aya was sick ... he never listened, never acted sensibly, was snappish and critical and demanding and unreasonable and overall just so damned annoying ... And Ken, who_ had_ tried to be patient and tender and helpful because, well, he had naively thought that was what a good lover should do, had finally made a decision and told Yohji—albeit after Yohji had stopped laughing at Ken's belief of what a good lover should do--that if Aya yelled at him _again_, he was going to give up and leave Aya to the two of them to deal with.

Armed with this decision, and climbing the stairs to Aya's room to check on him during his break, Ken quietly pushed against the closed door, smelling the rank odours of sickness even before he entered, and listening for sound within. There was silence, but approaching the bed, he saw Aya was awake.

And dressed. And standing. When Ken had told him, in no uncertain terms and quite a few certain ones barely a half hour ago, that Aya was not, under any circumstances, to get out of his bed until the next day. Ken saw red.

"What are you doing?" he almost screamed at the redhead.

"I'm fine. I don't know why you insist ..."

"Aya, you have pneumonia. One extra day of rest won't kill you."

"This mission would not be that difficult."

"It's almost winter, it's cold, it looks like it is going to rain. What part of you have pneumonia did you not understand? Besides, tonight we're just gonna be outside staking out the building—which will likely take the best part of the night. If you ask me, you are proving how sick you are by even suggesting you would be willing to waste your night out there being cold and wet and not asleep when you have the perfect excuse to get out of it. Just ask Yohji. He's been complaining all morning that he's had to take your place."

"Unlike you, I need the money."

"God! You can have mine."

"I won't take your money," said Aya stiffly, the very image of injured pride on his face.

"Aya, you're being impossible! What is freaking wrong with you?"

"Nothing. As I keep telling you."

"Fine. Do whatever you want. See if I care." Ken, almost as quick to temper as Aya and losing the precarious grip he had on his, threw up his hands in disgust.

Then Aya started coughing. Loudly, and helplessly, and painfully. In a breath Ken was across the room and holding him up, preventing him from collapse, helping Aya to sit back down. Slumping carefully and exhaustedly on the bed when he was done, Ken beside him, neither man spoke. Minutes passed in silence.

Finally Ken sighed. Moving around Aya, he brushed hair gently off Aya's face. "Let's get you settled back in. Fuck Ran, you're still really hot. I'll get some aspirin, another painkiller. You want some water?"

Aya didn't say anything, and Ken just waited. Patiently, as patient as he was with those kids he coached. Eventually Aya turned his head and spoke, in a voice blurred by exhaustion. "I ... I was supposed to visit Aya today."

"Oh."

"I always visit her on Wednesday, Ken. I bring her flowers, pink ones. She always liked pink."

Ken, not knowing what to say to that, sat carefully down again beside his drooping boyfriend on the bed. After a moment, and as gently as possible, he asked the only thing that he could think of to say, "Why Wednesday, Ran?"

"It was on a Wednesday."

"Oh." After a moment, Ken asked, "So, last Wednesday, when I wanted you to come with me to see the game ..."

"I went to see Aya."

"You could have told me. I would have understood." Instead, thought Ken, a bit hurt, Aya had bluntly refused to go to the game, and said several disparaging things about both Ken and his favorite game that had angered and upset him, and they hadn't spoken for two days—until the mission, and then Aya had gotten injured. And then fallen ill. Aya had been so pathetic, Ken had forgotten—until now—why he'd been mad in the first place. But thinking back to Wednesdays past, the pattern fell into painfully obvious place, and made so much sense, Ken felt stupid for not having noticed it before. And deeply hurt that after all these months, Aya hadn't told him.

"Ken, please, I ... I need to go. I worry ... I worry that ..." And Aya bit his lip, looking away, as if whatever his fear was, he couldn't voice it aloud.

When it became clear that Aya had no intention of continuing, Ken, asked, "What do you worry about, Aya?"

Aya didn't answer for a minute. Then he asked, "Ken ... when did Omi last sweep?"

Ken understood immediately what Aya meant. Kritiker bugged their building—it was, after all, owned by Kritker, as were they. The Koneko they could do nothing about, but Omi routinely swept their private living quarters for bugs. It might not make any difference, and probably didn't, but it made them all feel slightly more secure. And Omi insisted. "Yesterday, I think. Everything is spotlessly clean. Omi's good that way."

There was a moment of silence, and then Aya whispered, so quietly Ken could barely hear it. "I worry that ... they want to keep her sick. That they would make her sick, if they needed to. Because it binds me to them."

_Oh, Aya_, thought Ken, helplessly. Because, while he didn't seem the type to think it through—and while he wouldn't have put it past Kritiker to harm Aya's sister if it helped them—and while even though Aya rarely talked about the sister he lived for—he knew it really wouldn't matter. Whether or not they were treating her properly, the point was already moot. Aya's life—both Aya's—had been forfeit the second that a young, heartbroken Ran had signed his life over to Kritiker. And while it had crossed Ken's mind that Kritiker might not be providing the best care for Aya's sister—well, it had actually been Yohji that had raised it, one cold night when they'd been—

A small sound from Aya, that could have meant anything, really, broke into Ken's thoughts. "I wish ... I wish you could have met her, Ken. She's like you, a lot, in a lot of ways. She loved life, loved living, was always so active. Unlike me. More like you, really. I think ... I think you would have really liked her."

He was speaking in past tense, Ken noted, and didn't know what to say. Didn't know if there was anything he could say. Silence fell over them both again, until Ken couldn't stand it, felt he had to say something—anything--just to get Aya to talk again. "Last time you saw her ... how was she?"

"There had been no change." Aya's words were deliberate and flat. This time, Ken didn't dare say anything, even to break the painful silence. Instead, he reached out and took one of Aya's cold hands—such a contrast to the fevered heat of the rest of him--in his own.

After a time, possibly seconds, probably minutes, Aya spoke again. "If I don't go today ... she'll ... she'll think I forgot. She'll think I don't care anymore."

"Aya ... " Ken still didn't know what to say, how to make it better, if there was anything that could. _Aya is in a coma, and probably doesn't know what day it is_, was definitely not the right thing to say. He wished, for one wild moment, that Yohji were there—Yohji always knew what to say, and how to say it. Aya was obviously not thinking clearly, and was obviously in no state to go much of anywhere, but he was so upset.

"I could go for you," said Ken slowly. "I can ... Omi will make an arrangement, for Aya, if I ask."

"It's late. Omi's probably doing homework, or ..."

"He'll do it for you, if I ask."

"She doesn't know you."

"I'll tell her I'm a friend of yours, a good friend. I'll explain you are sick, and couldn't come yourself. I'll tell her you love her, and miss her. I'll explain it for you, Ran."

"I don't know. I ..."

"I'll tell her Omi made the arrangement, and that even though we don't know her, we all love her and are waiting for her to wake up."

"Aya and I were always honest with each other. Don't lie to her." Aya's voice was sharp.

"I won't be lying, Ran," said Ken gently. "We all love her. For you. We all love her for you."

Looking up into Ken's eyes, finding himself somehow lying down and carefully covered with blankets, Aya wanted to protest, wanted to argue; but the sincere, matter of fact tone of Ken's voice and the concern in Ken's eyes stopped him, and Aya found himself merely nodding. He was tired, he was aching: but the sheets were soft, the blankets warm, and Ken's touch was so, so soothing.

"Pink flowers, Ken. Roses, if you can. She likes iris, too, and sometimes, lily, if you can manage to get some. It's out of season right now, but ... " He was so tired, exhausted really, and even after four days the bullet wound in his left shoulder ached and burned, but his voice was urgent, anxious. It was very important to make sure Ken knew everything, to make sure that ...

Ken's hand had reached over to turn off the lamp, Ken's fingers were stroking across his cheek. "Relax, Ran. It'll be beautiful. It'll be perfect. Now go to sleep."

"I've never let anyone else go instead before." Aya's voice was slurred with sleep but still anxious.

"Trust me. Now really, go to sleep."

And most surprisingly, Aya did.

* * *

Aya knew something was wrong the moment Ken slammed through the door. He was obviously angry, to begin with, and he tracked mud across the kitchen floor for seconds—not unusual for Ken to do so, but he usually did make some attempt not to.

"Ken ..." began Aya, tentatively.

"I'm the one who always sweeps up, so shut up, all of you."

None of them pointed out that none of them had actually said anything about the mud.

"What, you think you are all so perfect? Well fuck you."

Ken slammed upstairs. The other three exchanged glances, and then Aya got up to follow.

Knocking on the door to Ken's room, Aya opened it before Ken could answer.

"Ken?"

"What," he snarled. "I haven't brought my dirt to your room, ok, and I won't so leave me the hell alone. This is my room."

"Ken ..." A small voice in Aya's head told him he'd spent the last ten minutes saying nothing more than Ken's name. Not the first time, however, the voice pointed out, and hopefully not the last, and Aya almost grinned. The wicked voice in his head cackled and wondered if repeating Ken's name counted as conversation.

Suddenly, Ken had tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. "One of the kids on my team, he's eleven. Eleven, but he's so good. And his parents, they're going to send him away to camp, and he was asking me about J-League today, asking if I'd ever wanted to go, why I didn't, did I think he was good enough. I told him I didn't want to, and even if I did, I wasn't good enough.. And y'know what, Aya? That's the truth. I wasn't good enough. I ... oh, never mind. Who cares, anyway? Get out."

Somewhat stunned, Aya didn't know what to say. He ached to touch Ken, but Ken looked so brittle, and he wasn't easy with touch—even now, even with Ken. So he said the only thing he could. "Ken. I love you, Ken."

Ken's eyes were still closed, but a tear leaked from behind the dark lashes. His voice, when he spoke, was a whisper. "I ... I know. I know you do."

Somehow, right then, it wasn't enough.

Helplessly Aya turned and left Ken alone, standing still in the middle of his room. Ken's eyes were still closed.

Ken slept on the mission couch that night, and went out early the next morning. Aya, who had the morning shift, quietly asked Yohji to cover after the morning rush, and went to find Ken. He found him at his usual haunt in the nearby soccer field, just as the game was ending.

Aya paused in the shadows for a moment, just to watch Ken, laughing in the sunshine until he had turned away, mobbed by a swarm of kids. Looked like his team had won, then. Kids and parents were swarming the field, and Aya hung back from the chaos and watched the parents of all the kids began picking up their kids, hugging and kissing and congratulating them on their efforts. He remembered, long ago, when his parents had done the same for him at a school science competition, praising and smiling while Aya ran around in exuberant joy. Then he blinked, and the scene was replaced again by the trees and mud and pale sunshine around him, Ken still hidden by the milling mass of people.

As the last of the children filed off the field, tossing back their farewells at Ken and chattering rapidly to whoever would listen, leaving Ken standing behind, waving enthusiastically at the kids alone on the field, Aya saw an unguarded expression, almost hungry and forlorn, cross Ken's face just before he turned to pick up. It made him frown, and cross over the field quickly, startling the younger boy.

"Hi," he said, quietly, giving Ken a moment.

"Hey, Fujimiya!" said Ken, all false cheer, still not quite looking up. "Aya, did you see that? We kicked butt! Did you see ..." True enthusiasm overshadowed the melancholy as Ken remembered the joy of the game, babbling on about the shot Yuki made or the goal Akira saved or the volley ...

"I only saw the end, really," Aya interrupted the soccer-babble, knowing that Ken would otherwise feel free to reprise the entire game for the next hour or more.

"Oh," said Ken, a bit deflated, and busied himself with picking up balls and net, turning his face away. Aya immediately regretted interrupting him. Soccer made Ken happy, he thought angrily at himself. How much would it have hurt you just to listen?

"So," tried Aya, "did your family meet you, after, when you played?"

"Hmm? Oh! No, I didn't start until I was eight." Ken's voice remained distracted, the enthusiasm again forced, and he was deliberately looking away from Aya.

_Ken's parents died when he was six_, though Aya. He cursed himself. Idiot.

After a moment, everything gathered up, but looking hard at the ground as he walked, Ken said, "I ... always thought, that, maybe they'd have been proud of me, too, if I guess, they had seen me. I mean, not now, I know, but maybe then. I worked hard at being good, Aya. I did. I ..."

And uncaring of where they were, on an open road and in broad daylight, Aya reached across and yanked, before tilting Ken's face up and kissing him, hard. "Of course they would have been proud, Ken. Of course they would be."

And just for a moment, Ken clung to him, out in the middle of the city; burying his face in Aya's neck and letting himself, for that brief moment, be comforted.

_**

* * *

End of Chapter 5 ... on to Chapter 6. Thanks for reading. **_


	6. Chapter 6: December

_A/N: All disclaimers and warnings continue to apply; please refer to notes before the Prologue. _

_Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed--all comments are very much appreciated, and it is very motivational. Apologies but looks like I can't respond individually unless you leave me an e-mail address or sign your comments—but if you do, I will._

* * *

_Chapter 6: December_

* * *

It had been a whilesince they'd gotten any major missions; but it appeared that cold, miserable December—a time when all commodities, particularly on foreign markets, did extremely well—was when organized crime also got into the festive spirit. The slave ring they thought they'd dealt with in the spring was back, Manx explained, perfectly coiffed and carefully manicured, gesturing gracefully with one hand as she passed out envelopes containing the mission parameters. 

"How?" asked Ken, always the least patient of them all when it came to missions, while Yohji reclined quietly on the couch with his habitual leer on his face, Aya beside him sitting as still as water, and Omi at the computer looking appropriately attentive, as he'd been taught.

"Well, Siberian, although you did take out one of the organizers—Izanami, daughter of Yutaka Kobayashi—turns out she was just collateral damage, in many ways. It was her father and his partners who were in complete control of her and the others you eliminated on that mission. I'm sorry to say we all missed it, but they—the three of them—were the ones in control from behind the scenes. They used whatever tools they could use—Izanami was one of them--and as I indicated, you successfully elimated her along with all their others. But, as Krtiker has learnt over the past few months, all we did was cut off a head of the hydra—and it's grown back. They've reorganized, and with the Christmas season coming, they are making themselves ready to do business. I'll let Persia explain."

So Kritiker yet again fed us to the wolves without checking the facts, thought Yohji bitterly, his eyes hidden behind his shades. Typical. And making it sound as if we somehow should have known. I suppose they're pretty surprised we managed to survive—go Weiss. I wonder if we'll get a bonus this time—we're valuable commodities to them ourselves.

Yohji didn't so much as twitch, however, stillsmirking lazily as Manx handed over the tape, and they all waited until Persia's deep tones filled in room. Then the four watched in complete silence as the horrifying images of Kobayashi and two other men luring their victims—kids, young men, young girls and women—filled the screen. Watched the footage of the young girls and boys as they were were broken down with beatings and torture, getting them ready for sale. They watched old footage of Yukata conditioning his daughter into a creature that lured kids and then "prepared" them for their futures. They watched as, without Izanami, he used his new victims to procure other victims, and laughed as he made them break each other. They watched giggling children, and vibrant teenagers, hopeful young women and strapping youths cry, scream, and despite their efforts and cunning and strength, their threats and pleas and promises, ultimately, and always, end up ready for sale: individuality wiped out with identical expressions, blank and filled with silent fear.

It seemed to go on forever until Persia finally said, "Weiss, these three men are your targets: Takumi Nakamuro and Riku Saito, and the center of it all, Yutaka Kobayashi. _Hunters of the night ..."_

As the tape ended, Manx turned the lights back up, and Yohji, feeling unbearably sad, looked round the room. Omi looked brittle, as blank as the children on the tape. Aya looked blank with murderous rage, and Ken ... Ken bolted out of the room, and they could all hear the sounds of retching from upstairs. Yohji forced himself to unclench his fist.

Manx's expression didn't change. Weiss, I'll leave you to it then. If you have any questions, you know how to contact me."

When none of the three remaining Weiss moved, Manx moved towards the stairs, lips twisting slightly in an expression that could not be considered a smile. "I'll have Siberian see me out, then. Good luck."

After the woman left, Yohji exchanged a glance with Aya, and moved quickly to stand beside Omi where he sat in the computer chair. Mentally, he cursed both Persia and Manx—they'd raised Omi, and like Yutaka with his child, they'd conditioned the boy into a killing machine—the completely unnecessary, repulsive video images were just another tool in their arsenal of manipulation. Crouching down beside the chair, Yohji spoke softly, calling the blond-haired boy back, "Omittchi ... " There was no response, and so Yohji moved a hand forward to touch Omi's arm, and then jumped back as Omi startled and flinched violently. Omi blinked suddenly, as if coming out of a trance, and turned towards Yohji, watched him work to cover his confusion with sharp irritation. "What is it, Yohji-kun?"

"You okay?"

"I have a lot of research to do before this mission. We should be ready to move by next Tuesday." And Omi turned back towards the computer screen, fingers already flying. It was a dismissal.

Yohji blinked. It was sometimes almost frightening how quickly Omi—Bombay--could process mission information and come up with a strategy. But it was what he'd been raised to do, and Yohji reminded himself not to forget it. Yohji had no doubt that Weiss _would_ be ready by Tuesday. And as much as he worried for young Omi, somewhere inside of Persia's perfect strategist assasin... there was nothing else he could do. He sighed and stood up. "All right then, kiddo. You need anything, you let us know, huh? You've got school tomorrow too, remember." Reminding Omi, as much as he could, every chance he got, of who he was outside of this underground world. Meeting Aya's eyes again, Yohji squeezed Omi's shoulder and moved toward the stairs, followed by Aya.

Leaving Omi in front of the basement computer, alone.

* * *

"Feeling better?" 

Ken grunted, coming out of his bathroom, wiping his face with a towel. Aya stood at the door, not daring for safety reasons, to venture into the disaster of Ken's room. It looked possibly worse than usual, he thought.

"How's Omi?"

Aya shrugged and didn't answer. The matter of their youngest member was something that had concerned them all, for some time. But until they figured out a way to get him—get all of them--out ofKritiker ...

"I remember the girl," said Ken abruptly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She was probably Omi's age. Not older than me. Pretty. She looked ... innocent. From the tape, looks like she was treated not much better than the slaves. She just had a different purpose."

Aya didn't answer.

"How ... how could he do that, Aya, to his own daughter?" There was a world of emotion in Ken's eyes, overlaid by a basic confusion, and revulsion for anyone that could even contemplate something so heinous. Aya moved the three steps it took to wrap Ken in his arms, trying to comfort him the only way he could. He felt warm wetness seep against the skin of his neck, and for a brief moment, closed his own eyes. He couldn't explain to Ken what he didn't understand himself.

Looking past Ken's head, where it lay on his shoulder, Aya's eyes darted to the bed, where a book lay haphazardly on the top of the rumpled sheets. _Hagakure_, off his own bookshelf, which he'd been given years ago, back in training when he'd first entered Weiss. _The Way of the Dead_.

Aya raised an eyebrow, moved back to look Ken in the eyes, gesturing towards the bed. "You been reading that?"

Ken took a step back, straightened his clothes and made a clumsy attempt at surreptitiously wiping his eyes. The small movement made Aya's heart clench. "I thought I'd take a stab at it. Understand your bushido."

"Don't." Aya gestured helplessly, trying to explain the sudden grim severity of his voice. "It's not ... it doesn't apply. Not to us. Not for Weiss."

"From what I've read so far, I think it might ..." Ken began.

"No, Ken." Aya deliberately moved into the room past Ken and picked up the book. "No."

Ken shrugged. "Whatever."

Aya shuddered, noting as he slipped the slim volume into a pocket, that the pages looked far better used than what he remembered, and hoping against hope that Ken hadn't read much of the text. From what he knew of his lover ... Ken would completely misconstrue the wrong parts of the ancient writings, and who knew what ideas it would give him. Ritual suicide. Taking on an older lover, and giving him up when the younger reached full adulthood. Living as if you were already dead. There were parallels to Weiss at some basic level, but they were dangerous.

Although ... maybe that would explain some of the cryptic comments Ken had made, from time to time. Crazy comments about Aya finding someone better, after Ken. Comments, as Aya carefully dressed an injury at the end of a mission, that he was dead anyway, and it only needed to hold until they killed him for good. Aya never discussed these remarks; Ken was always tired, or drugged, or drunk, when he made them, and so Aya had tried to dismiss them, not give them any more weight than delusion warramted. But it wasn't just once that Ken had suggested, either jokingly or not, that he wouldn't live or be with Aya much past adulthood. And while death was a reality for all of them, certainly, there was a resigned quality to Ken's voice that even at his worst, Aya had never had, and that only Omi, who was quite certainly the most damaged of them all, have ever approached. Although Omi worked very, very hard at hiding his true feelings from everyone, including himself.

As for full adulthood ... Ken would turn twenty in a few weeks. They'd already talked about visiting the temple, celebrating _Seijin no hi_ when it followed a few weeks later. Orphaned at such a young age, Ken hadn't really made any plans for his coming of age celebrations; Aya and the two others had decided to remedy that, and they'd been planning things for a while. It was good for Omi, whose own celebrations would come in a few years, and while Aya hadn't really done very much for his—having been in the hospital, and just kicked out of Crashers at the time—he remembered his parents planning for it, since he'd been quite young, and remembered what they would have done for him. And Yohji had had Asuka, at the time, to celebrate with. From the stories Yohji told, he had had quite the celebration. And he had a good many ideas for Ken as well, involving brothels and drink and various other things. Laughing quietly with Yohji as they'd made their plans, he recalled telling Yohji he would let him take responsibility for that part of Ken's celebration, but if he let Ken anywhere near a brothel, he'd kill Yohji himself.

Ken made a noise, and Aya looked up. Ken, who had changed his shirt and combed his hair, stood looking inquiringly at him as Aya still stood in his doorway, lost in thought. Aya blinked, recovering, and asked, "You coming down for dinner?" He really ought to talk to Ken about what he'd read, Aya thought again, even though the gods knew he didn't want to ...

"Sure. Hit the lights, could ya babe?" Aya made a face at the casual endearment, and Ken smirked annoyingly, daring Aya to do something about it. A lunge as Ken came close, a yank at an exposed wrist, and a tonsil-cleaning kiss later, Aya made Ken promise he wouldn't be so foolish as to call Aya by any silly pet names again.

But despite the distraction, Aya, feeling the book heavy in his pocket, couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that had gripped him. Dismissing it for the moment, he turned and hit the lights as he walked out.

The room plunged into darkness as they closed the door behind them.

* * *

Hunting dark beasts usually didn't look like drinking tequila on a Tuesday night, in an underground but upscale bar, but you gotta do what you gotta do, Ken thought, trying valiantly—despite the fight he'd had less than an hour ago with Aya--to suppress a grin. 

He was sitting there idly, with amateurish obviously fake I.D. and without weapons, because he was the one who'd been most able to pose as the typical male victim—innocent, underage, and under-privileged, but clean-cut and slender--although admittedly Ken was perhaps slightly older than most of the victims—or he would be very soon, he thought to himself (and despite Aya's glower, Yohji had already promised to show him all manner of decadent delights when he turned of age). There were very few adult men that had been taken, and soboth Aya with his broad-chested build, andYohji with his lanky height and air of maturity, were ruled out as candidates. And while there was no denying Omi had also fit the victim profile, none of the older three had even contemplated letting Omi take on the role.

So here he was, hanging around the right district at the right time, allowing himself to be intercepted by a dead-eyed young girl about his own age, who had given him a "free pass" and invitation to the exclusive club, where his pass had granted him free liquor and free clothes and free leering smiles, all for the taking. Even though Ken had known the agenda behind the pass, he had to admit it was alluring. The obvious admiration, the sexy but tasteful clothing, the free drink for the asking—Yohji, who was far more protective towards the younger two than one would expect from a guy with his apparent morals, had never let him or Omi drink around the house, even though, as he kept pointing out, they _killed_ people for a living. Yohji would just laugh and pour him a Coke, and say he'd get all the beer he wanted when he was legal. It was aggravating. He drank an extra shot just for Yohji, and grinned, while reminding himself to stop and fake the rest. He was getting a very pleasant buzz, and Yohji had warned him that although he could take some liquor because he had a fair amount of mass for his size, he wasn't experienced at holding it, and needed to go slow. And it really didn't taste all that great. But the facade did require he drink something, after all. No teenaged guy would pass up the opportunity he was faced with.

Although as much fun considering he was still on a mission as he was having, it was somewhat tempered. He knew this mission was upsetting Aya beyond measure--Aya hated to leave him so exposed and on top of it all, Manx had particularly warned them it was dangerous, which sort of unnecessary warning had just gotten Aya even more glare-y-eyed. Apparently, the local police had tried this with two other officers before. Each time, the bait had ended up dead, or worse. Manx didn't specify what worse could be, and Ken didn't really want to know.

Ken wasn't really worried, though. Not only could he take care of himself—in hand to hand, he was the best of the four of them, and amongst Kritiker's teams, they were the best there was--Aya, his control-freak, very tense, very barely months-old new boyfriend, wasn't the type of guy to let any serious danger get within a five kilometer radius of Ken. While it wasn't like there'd been any promises made between them or anything—Ken prided himself on his realistic, practical nature, and he was practical enough to know that despite Aya's intensity, Aya would and should eventually wake up and move on to bigger and better things, more talented and beautiful someones--because Aya deserved better, and Ken, who loved him, wanted better for him—Ken also knew Aya well enough to know that, while they were still involved, the only person he really had to fear would hurt him was Aya. Which suited Ken, for the moment, just fine.

And while Ken understood Aya's concern—had the roles been reversed, he would have been the glowering, angry one--Ken was trying to remind himself to enjoy himself. He didn't really mind the lack of weapon, even. He could take care of himself, armed or not, and on top of that, if he could manage not to look at the eyes of the girl beside him, if he could manage to ignore the predatory looks of the older men crowding the bar, the ambience was fine and the liquor was free. Yohji was usually the one that got blessed with these types of undercover assignments—or even sometimes Aya or, if it wasn't dangerous, Omi—but he couldn't remember ever having gotten to do this part of the deal. It was easy. For a mission, it was fun. The ginger-haired little girl beside him was whispering seductively in his ear, a pretty teenaged boy withflat green eyes across from him was smiling at him sweetly. Ken suppressed another shudder, took another drink, and reminded himself of all the other missions he'd had to spend crouched for hours in an airless closet or shivering on a frozen rooftop. All he had to do this time was relax and look vulnerable, and then sit back and let the others do the cleaning up when the time came. He smiled suddenly, and with determination. This was fun. He hoped he made really good bait, he decided—he thought he might like to do this type of thing again.

* * *

_End Chapter 6. Another short chapter. Chapter 7 will likely be more substantial. Or not. If I've got any of the details wrong—like an idiot I forced myself to do a smattering of research for this bit—apologies, and please do let me know. I'm also struggling with the timeline—if you ask me, it makes no sense that Ken is only 19, but there you go. Thanks for reading, and please leave a review if you can._


	7. Chapter 7: Tequila!

_A/N: All disclaimers and warnings continue to apply; please refer to notes before the Prologue. This is rated M, so you must be over 17 to read this, because there's profanity and references to sexual activity here. Please read responsibly :-)._

_All comments and criticisms are very much appreciated, particularly as I am likely to rewrite some of this fic anyway. As you may know, I can't respond individually to reviews unless you leave me an e-mail address or sign your comments—but if you do, I will. Privately e-mailed or PM'd comments are welcome too, if you prefer. So, hope you enjoy, but feel free to let me know, as you wish, either way._

* * *

_Chapter 7: Tequila!_

* * *

By the end of the sixth day, Ken hated the assignment. He didn't know how Yohji put up with this sort of shit. He didn't like tequila or sake or any of the other drinks he was required to consume; he was tired of all the pawing he'd had to not just endure but encourage from lecherous men and women old enough to be his parents and, in some cases, grandparents; and Aya was either really irritable or really clingy, by turns, and the mood swings on top of Ken's own weariness and upset with the mission were beginning to seriously affect him. Besides which, it was just taking too long. Something was starting to feel seriously wrong. And--although he couldn't say anything, least of all to Aya--the blank stares of the already broken, and the hopeful smiles of those not yet taken were really, seriously disturbing him. He couldn't ... 

_You're just tired,_ he told himself, cutting off the thought before completion. _Stop being melodramatic._

To make everything worse, he had a morning shift, again.

Wandering into his room, he looked around, and sighed. It was messy. Soccer posters decorated the walls; soccer gear littered the corner. A small pressboard desk, covered in mission documents and comics and game schedules, sat in another. A pile of dirty laundry lay on the floor, off to one side, and a bunch of ... stuff ... was randomly scattered over the floor. The bed was neatly made, albeit covered with various items of clothing, both mission and casual. This room was his. Except for the fact he could no longer sleep in it—and that, only because he was no longer able to relax properly without Aya beside him, which at this moment irritated him no end—he liked his room. A lot. He'd always been comfortable in it, and right now, he wanted that comfort, that sense of self. The last few days had left him feeling vaguely ... unlike himself. Dressed in clothes too tight and smiling a smile too bright. Sometimes he wondered how Yohji and Omi did it. At least Aya had always been honest about his feelings.

He cleared off and sat on his desk chair. Like everything else, it gave him a sense of familiar comfort as he leaned back, his body effortlessly adapting to the hard wooden surface.

The only thing missing was Aya.

He wondered, if he asked, if Aya would consider ...

He looked around, and made a decision. He could, at least, ask—what kind of wimp didn't even try? So he picked up the phone and called Aya in the next room--he didn't want Aya to reject his suggestion to his face. He wasn't a wimp, but he wasn't an idiot, either. He asked, and didn't really hear what Aya said in response, expecting the negative. Ken made some general sound of agreement when he heard silence and hung up. Then he kept sitting, trying to get up the energy to go take a shower and get over to Aya's room, where he knew the redhead waited.

There was a knock at the door. He got up, automatically, to answer it.

"Ken. It's late. You're dirty. I am tired. Go shower." Aya was standing there, pillow and blanket in his hand. Aya pushed past Ken and stalked into the room, lip curling, looking around with derision. "Don't you ever clean?"

"Aya ..." Ken's mind was having trouble processing what was happening. He stood motionless, still clutching the knob of the open door.

"We got back ages ago. You should be ready for bed. We have early shift."

"I ... you came." Ken was still standing there, holding the door.

"I live here. What on earth are you talking about?" A perplexed, impatient, and slightly worried frown marred Aya's features.

"You hate my room. But you came."

"It's not really a big deal, Ken. And you've never really asked me over here before. I figured you didn't have clean sheets or something ... I mean, you do, don't you? Have clean sheets?" Aya raised one gracefully arched eyebrow in mock-dismay, as if the thought that Ken may not change his sheets was horrifying to him.

It probably was, Ken thought, trying to process everything, his mind working far too slowly. He opened his mouth to answer. "Yeah. I ... " Aya shook his head slightly at Ken's flustered response, and Ken belatedly realized Aya had been teasing. God, he was tired, and Aya was ...

"Ken. I don't know what is wrong with you, but I need to get some sleep, and so you need to get going." Aya was closing the door, gently pushing Ken toward the shower, somehow handing him a clean towel that Aya produced as if by magic. "_Go_."

And it was so easy to let Aya take over, to follow Aya's direction. Before he knew it he was washed, and changed, and lying wrapped in Aya's arms on his bed. Because he knew Aya would never, ever take advantage, of any kind, and here, in his room with Aya, warm from his bath and wrapped in the softness of his own, familiar sheets, his face buried in the skin of Aya's neck, he didn't need to be on his guard, didn't need defences. Because this was the one place, the one place in the entire world he was completely, and absolutely, safe.

And then Aya moved against him, and Ken was suddenly not so tired anymore.

"No." Aya's voice was an irritated rumble in the darkness, but Ken could hear the thread of amusement and affection under the bitten off words. "Go to sleep, Ken."

Warm and safe, grinning broadly, Ken slept.

* * *

Awareness came to Ken slowly in the morning, filtered through dream and memory. He was warm, and sleepy, and very, very comfortable ... and not alone. He shifted, slightly, feeling the warmth and give and solid muscle and bone of another, very familiar, body, and smiled. _Aya_. Well, Ran, but Ken couldn't quite, at least not this early, make the shift to thinking of Aya as Ran, when Aya had always been Aya to him. Did that make sense? It didn't matter. He was his. His. _Aya._ Who had stayed with him all night, because he'd asked. A wave of pure happiness flooded him, and he swallowed a laugh, not wanting to wake his bed partner this early in the morning. 

"Good morning, Ken, sleep well?" Too late. Sometimes Aya did really seem more like the cat for which he was named.

"Thank you", was what Ken said, instead, the words out of his mouth before he'd had a chance to think them through.

Aya raised an inquiring eyebrow, but said only, "Your room is quite messy. You really ought to clean it sometime." Which, in Aya-speak, was his way of assuring Ken that everything was really, really all right.

Didn't stop Ken from being self-conscious about it, from trying to explain and apologize all at once. "I know, I ... "

Ken's words were lost in Aya's mouth, as he stopped his words with a somewhat less than perfect kiss. Morning breath, it really wasn't ... but then Aya's mouth was moving lower, and lower, and morning breath really wasn't very important at all ...

Aya's breath was moist and heated on his skin, his lips soft and perfect, and his voice a seductive rumble, and Ken moaned, all coherent thought rushing out of his brain.

Aya was speaking as he fingered the top of Ken's boxers. "Ken, what if I were on top this time?

Ken froze. "What?" He ... he was still getting used to ... he didn't think ... but it wasn't fair to Aya to ...

Aya's voice was soft and tentative. "I just thought ... maybe ... "

Ken sat up abruptly, drawing his knees up, muscles rigid and desire having fled for the hills. It wasn't the first time this had come up, but it was the first time Aya had been so direct. "I ... I'm sorry. Not yet, Aya, I ... "

Aya sighed. "It's okay, Ken."

Kase had always been direct—more than direct, sometimes. But Aya was nothing like Kase, Ken reminded himself. Nothing like. Kase would never have let Ken be on top to begin with, and when he'd been with Kase, he'd never even wanted—he'd never trusted Kase enough, in retrospect—to even consider letting Kase inside him. Aya was different. Aya loved him. He could ... he just ... just not yet. He felt miserable.

"I really am sor ..."

"It's okay, Ken. Really. Just ... we have an early shift. I better get going." And rising in one graceful movement, Aya was across the room and out the door before Ken could frame any reply that didn't begin with _I'm sorry_ and end with _I suck._

Lying there staring at the closed door over an hour later, he still couldn't find one.

* * *

The seventh night, and thank all that was holy, Omi had decided to give up on the whole bait scenario, and try something a little more traditional. They were assassins, not the undercover type, for Gods sake—Kritiker had other teams for infiltration-type information gathering—and the fact that they'd had left the undercover portion up to Weiss didn't bode well but Ken wasn't going to think about that. And besides, Omi had reasoned aloud, entirely ignoring Ken's blush—missing a day at the club might actually raise interest in Ryou, Ken's pretty-boy alter-ego. 

Whatever the reasoning, Ken could have kissed Omi for the break; he upgraded to kissing Aya instead. From Aya's response, Ken thought that Aya might have forgiven him for his behaviour that morning, but looking at Aya's face, rubbing a thumb over one perfect cheekbone, he couldn't be sure. Then Aya turned away, and in the next moment he was Abyssinian and looking at mission plans, and that was it.

Omi had found a building, apparently a storage facility. It might not be the main building, it might not be anything--but Omi's digging had revealed a ton of activity in the small warehouse, with deliveries and shipments and a landing strip on the roof. The plan was for the three of them to go in, with Omi providing computer-assisted guidance from a distance. For this mission, each of them would wear a standard electronic tracker, linked to Omi's computer, that they each stuck to a hip under their clothes—no danger of the trackers falling off that way, except, as Aya commented dryly, for Yohji, which earned Aya a smirk and leer and a "You wish, baby", and Ken glaring at both of them--and Omi had linked also to the building's own video surveillance equipment. The plan was simple: find what they could, kill the targets if they got lucky, and get out.

Omi didn't say it in so many words, but Ken gathered he didn't like leaving his teammate so exposed either, and ... it really was taking too long. Omi felt it as well. Something was off.

And for a change, things went swimmingly.

They made it into the building without a hitch, and the night shift seemed appropriately quiet. Because they weren't really sure of what they were looking for, or where they might find it, they each took a floor—Aya was to take the first, Yohji the second, and Ken the third. If they found anything worth looking into, they were to let Omi know ASAP, and the others could join for backup. No engagement unless strictly necessary—or unless the target was located--this was a sneak and retrieve-type mission. Computer files could be saved to disk, or they could link and upload directly to an encrypted site which would then download to Omi's computer. Easy peasy.

"Lots of guards here," came Aya's quiet voice over the com. "Not sure why. Just a lot of bored, overweight guards, not much else. Amateur, hired I'd guess, from the look of the uniforms. They don't look like they know much. I'm going to be a while."

"Roger that, Abyssinian. Maintaining communication silence now."

And it was weird. "Really fucking weird," in Yohji's aggrieved tones over the com. Lots of guards, big empty rooms that looked cleaned out, and the place as quiet as a well-populated tomb.

Painstakingly, silently, Aya worked his way stealthily across and around the first floor, seeing nothing of any use or interest. But there _was_ something here, he'd bet on it. Everything was too ... weird. He was almost through when Omi's calm voice over the com interrupted his concentration.

"Siberian? Balinese, I've lost communication with Siberian. Please report."

"Shit Bombay, I'm in the middle of this floor, and there are guards all around me. Could you ... " Yohji's voice faded into static for a moment.

"Already on it." Bombay's clear, steady voice.

"Bombay, what?"

"Abyssinian, keep to the mission, do you hear? Your area is almost clear. There is no reason to abort."

"There is nothing here, Bombay. I'm through. My area is clear. I am going to upstairs now, to cover Siberian. Over." Aya had a bad feeling. It may not be anything, but sometimes in the assassin business, instinct was all you had, and Aya had learnt the hard way to trust his.

"Fine. Balinese?"

"Thanks for the assist. On my way out. There's something really wrong here. Who the fuck needs this many guards to guard some old financial documents and obsolete equipment-- there's nothing much else here, although it looks like there was ... it's really strange, it's ... _it's as if they were expecting us._"

Something clicked. Aya broke into a run, not caring if he could be heard. Yohji was right. They'd been expected. God, they'd been so stupid, they'd been expected, it was a trap, a trap and ...

He burst through the stairwell doors onto the third floor. Into a large, barren, empty room. And Aya's heart lurched in his chest, as sound and light rushed around him, his gaze narrowing, focussing, filling and overwhelmed with the images in front of him. Behind him, he could vaguely hear Yohji's footsteps thundering up the stairs, Omi's voice shrieking in his ear, _"They've heard you, they know, abort, do you hear me, abort ..."_

A pool of blood, and more smeared across the wall.

An orange sweatshirt, blotched with red, lying in shredded pieces on the ground.

A glove ... a leather glove ... Ken's leather glove ...

He stood there, frozen and unmoving, as Yohji skidded to a halt behind him, began yelling indecipherable words in Aya's ear. But Aya couldn't hear him. In Aya's mind a voice was screaming, over, and over, and over, and over ...

_No, please, no, no, Ken, oh God Ken, please, no ..._

And just over the screaming in Aya's mind, he could hear the faint but unmistakable sound of chopper blades.

* * *

_End Chapter 7. Stay tuned for Chapter 8 ..._

_Gah, I hate any attempt at plot, but there you go. This one took a bit of time, although it was, as is most of this story, half-written already ... I think I am such a fluff writer--although I love reading angst, I hate, y'know, really being mean to my boys. And posting is so final, even if I plan to edit later.But I sat down today, bit the bullet as they say (let's hope Ken doesn't), and anyhow—a bit of a cliffhanger for the new year ... or earlier, depending on time. You'll be busy with Christmas stuff—trust me, you won't even notice. _

_As always, feedback, comments, reviews, criticisms—all very much appreciated._


	8. Chapter 8: Theory and Practice

_A/N: All disclaimers and warnings continue to apply; please refer to notes before the Prologue. _

_Sorry this one's a bit short. Unexpected RL circumstances have greatly impacted on the posting schedule, so I thought a short bit may be better than nothing._

_Thanks again to all who have reviewed; they are both encouragement and reward, and I sincerely treasure each one. _

* * *

_Chapter 8: Theory and Practice_

* * *

_An empty room._

_A pool of blood. More smeared across the wall. The copper tang of it filling his nostrils._

_Shredded orange jersey fabric, blotched with red, scattered over a cold cement floor._

_A glove ... a leather glove ... Ken's abandoned weapon ..._

_His own harsh breathing, the beat of his heart filling the silence._

Aya stood stock still, frozen with emotions roiling through him--rage and panic and dread and despair and horror and so many others he couldn't acknowledge or express. Ken wasn't wearing his old jersey, he realized. Ken wasn't going to make the rendezvous point, he realized. The target … Ken had missed the target completely.

The target hadn't missed Ken.

He couldn't think. He couldn't think. He tried to look as blank as he knew how.

It was long minutes before he realized someone was yelling at him. Yohji. It was Yohji yelling at him. Loudly. The words were too loud. They didn't make any sense--just noise, too much noise …

He had to get out of here. Ken was … Ken was … He couldn't be here. He turned towards where he thought Yohji should be, and said, carefully, as clearly and evenly as he could manage, "We should go."

He had no idea where to go, or how. He just needed to get out of that deserted, blood-drenched room.

He had no idea how he might have looked, standing so still, concentrating so hard, as hard as he could on keeping his face expressionless.

He had no idea …

Yohji suddenly started yelling at him for being cold and uncaring and how could he not even flinch when Ken ...

And then Yohji abruptly slapped him, hard, across the face.

It hurt.

"Aya. We have to go. They're coming, Aya. We have to go, go get Ken." Yohji was speaking, very slowly--why was Yohji speaking so slowly? Aya tried to focus, and blinked. Yohji's face was close, too close; Yohji's face was anxious, fear and anger and concern etched into unfamiliar lines across Yohji's normally smooth, lazy-eyed face.

Aya staggered. The raw emotion leaking out of Yohji and all over him was more than he could bear. What did it matter, what did anything matter? Ken was dead, Ken was ...

Yohji's hands were on his arms, Yohji was holding him up … Yohji was shaking him, saying something. "He's not dead, Aya. Do you hear me? Ken's not dead. He's still alive. He's still alive, and Omi can track him, Aya, Aya, he's not dead!"

Not dead? Ken was … He looked at Yohji, wild-eyed. Yohji was speaking to him, he realized. "We can get him back. We can get Ken back, Aya. But you need to move. Move!"

They could get Ken? Yes, yes, that made sense. Go get Ken. Yohji knew where Ken was. Yohji would take him. Yohji had grabbed his hand, was pulling him through a window, and he followed, scaling the wall as Yohji directed, fighting when Omi told him, trying not to remember ...

Ken standing at the edge of a soccer field shouting instructions to a group of eager and adoring kids; Ken ducking discreetly behind a convenient shelf to kiss him, not long, but hard and deep and clearly showing the skill of a fast learner; Ken scornfully debunking some theoretical point of Aya's latest philosophical text; Ken lying with his head in Aya's lap, warm and damp and smelling cleanly of soap, deep asleep in the middle of the afternoon despite the soccer game playing on TV; Ken reaching up, eyes soft and tender, gently brushing hair off Aya's face and putting careful bandages on cuts and scrapes post-mission; Ken shirtless and damp from the shower, sauntering past him and smirking in a manner clearly designed to tease—

The guards were good. They were heavy and large and very, very good, and had guns and were good with them too. Aya almost took two bullets, grazing shoulder and thigh, flesh wounds that burned and throbbed and kept him grounded, brought him back to the moment, to the simple motions of fighting, of moving his katana through air and flesh and bone, before Omi gave the signal and they were running, he and Yohji, running and running ...

Bleeding and incoherent, he fought them when they tried to make him get in the car, and leave without Ken. He fought them, but in the end, Bombay pulled rank, calling him _Aya-kun_ in that way he had, overly familiar and superior but somehow still so respectful, Omi's face tight with worry and self-doubt and, in the end, there was enough left of Abyssinian that he responded to the strict command, although somewhere deep inside, Aya kept screaming, and Ran kept crying.

But then, Aya and Ran had been doing that for a long, long time now.

* * *

Aya was laughing, gentle and sweet, and Ken couldn't help but smile as Aya lifted a corner of the blanket, raising that graceful eyebrow in entreaty, Aya's eyes warm and loving. Ken shivered. He was cold, and his clothes were damp and somewhere, something hurt. _It must have been raining, _Ken thought, not really remembering how he had ended up so cold and wet and sore. Behind Aya, he could see the clear blue sky outside, with the sun shining brightly, and Ken became confused, wondering … But Aya laughed again, throaty and seductive, shifting alluringly where he lay. Aya was naked, lying so enticingly on the bed, on sheets of fine indigo silk, the deep shade reflecting the incredible colour of Aya's eyes, bright and shining with love, love for him, and Ken moved to take a step forward, and found he couldn't. He couldn't move, he was tied up, soft ribbons binding his wrists, wrapped around his ankles, and Ken frowned, slightly, tugging firmly at the bindings. Aya was fonder of these types of games than Ken was, but these ribbons were tight, and Aya never tied him so tightly, never enough to confine, never enough that Ken couldn't get free if he really wanted, never … 

Ken woke abruptly. He was alone, struggling futilely against thick, knotted ropes, which bound him hand and foot and tightly enough to cut off circulation. He was cold, freezing really, and kinda dizzy; and the wetness was, he supposed, blood. He could feel it, seeping thick and warm against his chilled skin. Pain wracked his body at every slight movement, every time he shivered. There was so much pain, everywhere: flaring particularly bright across his ribs, in his right shoulder, along his left calf, the small of his back on the left side. He tried, but couldn't stop shivering.

He'd been caught. He'd been caught, like an idiot, like the fool that Aya always said he'd never suffer gladly, glaring all the while. Aya was going to be so freakin' _mad_ at him, he thought. So he needed to get out of here, because if he didn't, Aya was going to skin him alive, and what was left, Omi would mash into a fine pulp. Omi in a rage—a real rage—was rare but scarier than Aya. And then, worst of all, Yohji, Yohji who was never serious and rarely sober, _Yohji _would make him sit down and listen to a lecture about responsibility and taking care of himself and proper procedures. Ken shuddered, cursing whatever impulse had made him dash headlong into that room full of guards, even if they hadn't seemed that competent, and struggled harder against the ropes, trying to remember every bit of training he'd ever had about what to do when tied up, and didn't really care that his wrists and ankles were already slick with blood, didn't really notice the burning pain where the ropes cut into raw, abraded flesh.

He'd seen what Kobayashi did to his victims--his commodities, his failed employees, enemies.

He needed to get free. He needed to get out of here. He needed, he wanted, he had to go _home._ But struggling, he soon found, was useless.

Panic forced him to keep struggling.

Pain and exhaustion, a mere hour later, made him stop.

* * *

Aya had no idea how they'd gotten back home. He thought Omi had been driving, even though they almost never let the kid drive. Kill: yes; drive either of their cars: no. But Omi had driven Aya's beloved car through snow-slick streets and Aya couldn't care less, because all he could do was try to blank his mind as well as his face and look calm, and collected, and everything he'd always been expected to be, all his effort undone by the unbidden, repetitive memory of the moment he'd first realized Ken was gone, reliving itself over and over in his head.

They'd looked for Ken. Afterwards, they'd looked for Ken. They failed to find him. Nor did they find any sign of where he'd gone. The tracker wasn't picking up. There was no trace, no trail. No schedule or map or any fucking _clue _on any of the computers they'd scanned, Omi's fingers flying over the keys of the multiple systems he'd hacked into, uncharacteristically impatient, his lack of patience causing errors, making Omi curse, making Aya growl, while Yohji smoked, cigarette after cigarette, making the air around them thick and toxic.

Kritiker's training had never prepared them for this. Kritiker expected its agents to either kill or be killed. Capture was never part of the scenario. Rescue was never authorized. None of them knew, although each of them, privately, in the dead of night, had considered, all the possibilities of what could happen to an agent that was captured.

There was nothing left to do but go home.

SoAya kept blinking, trying to focus, feeling a terrible, frozen sense of déjà vu. Blinking over and over again, just like he had in those dreadful minutes after he'd returned home from a silly, careless day of following his sister around fair stalls for her birthday, bickering and laughing, to find everything and everyone he loved broken and bleeding and dead to him. The same sick, horrifying realization, after hoping for hours outside an operating room while holding a box of earrings, sitting in a hard hospital chair as doctors told him his sister was in a coma, would never wake up, would never be whole again, The same feeling as only hours after kissing Ken, teasing him about not being able to make soup from a bloody _can_, to climbing those stairs to that horribly empty blood-stained room, leaving the warehouse without Ken, arriving home without Ken, Yohji still talking, talking, tugging at his clothes, an urgent look on his face and saying things Aya couldn't comprehend; Omi finally, blessedly intervening, telling Yohji to stop, to leave him alone, to—

Ken was gone. Just like all the others. He was gone—taken, and they had no leads, no information, no hope of finding him ...

Ken was gone.

All the others had been taken, said Manx. They'd been found—returned, more accurately, as warning---dead, or ... worse.

And try as he might, he couldn't shake that numbness, that oddly detached feeling that this was all a dream, that soon, soon he would wake up, that in just another moment he would wake up and all the horror would be over, wake up and his world would be safe, would be whole, would be clean again.

Slowly, he climbed the stairs to his room, to their room, and pushed open the door. Ken's jeans lay haphazardly across the bed, and in the corner, a stray cleat peaked out from under it.

Aya suddenly found himself standing over a wastebasket, throwing up, his stomach emptying itself over the image of that pool of blood, the stained shirt, the leather glove that had belonged to his love ...

He'd thought his world had fallen apart years ago. He thought he knew what it was like to die.

It shouldn't hurt so much to kill a dead man. If Aya hadn't been so numb, he might have been surprised at how much it still did.

* * *

_On to chapter 9 –again, sorry for the delay. Please review / e-mail feedback if you can-- all feedback is greatly appreciated; I appreciate both positive comments as well as criticism. _

_And thanks to you for still reading. _


	9. Chapter 9: Into the Fire

_A/N: All disclaimers and warnings continue to apply; please refer to notes before the Prologue._

_Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoy this next short bit--I hadn't intended for this to be Chapter 9, but I dashed it off and thought, what the heck, let's go post! So here it is._

_Thanks to all who have reviewed! I felt like the last chapter was a bit filler-like, and was really surprised by the positive responses. Again, I do reply to all signed reviews, and for those that didn't sign, while I can't reply individually (I'd flout the rules, but then I'd just feel guilty)—thank you! I truly appreciate it, and it really helps keep me motivated._

* * *

_Chapter 9: Into the Fire _

* * *

"How do you know Ken is still alive?" 

"Huh?"

"How do you know Ken is still alive?"

"Uh ... well Ayan, it's..."

Yohji, wrapping careful bandages around the bullet grazes while Omi handed him scissors and gauze, blinked at the question, lifting his eyes to shoot a desperate glance at Omi. He—they—_didn't_ know Ken was still alive. But they didn't know he was dead, either, and at the time, they'd just needed Aya to _move_.

Since they'd gotten home, since they'd entered his room—the room that reeked, by the way, of vomit and despair—since that time, Aya had barely moved. He'd suffered Omi and Yohji to remove his clothing, examine his injuries, dress his wounds, wrap him in bandages. But he looked about as alive as a plastic mannequin. And until now, he hadn't said one word to either of them.

"We don't know."

Shocked, Yohji looked up at Omi's quiet, even tones, cutting off his fumbling words. Didn't Omi realize how fragile Aya was right now? But Omi continued without a beat, ignoring Yohji entirely. "Aya-kun, we don't know, not for sure. But I'm pretty sure he's not dead. Think about it. There was no body, and we _looked_. There was no body. If there had been, the tracker would have picked up. I'm sure of it. If Ken-kun were dead, they'd have dumped him and fled. They didn't do that. I'm fairly certain they have him, and that he's alive."

"How long?"

"It's only been about five hours since we left on the mission, so ... Ken-kun should have been gone for about ..."

"No. How long will he stay alive?"

For that, Omi had no answer.

In the silence, Yohji kept wrapping.

* * *

They came too soon, and not soon enough. 

In the cold, airless, windowless room, Ken hadn't really been asleep, half-lying in his own filth on the floor, but he wasn't quite awake either, drifting and shivering and cursing himself.

Now and again, a few times, someone had come in. They'd tested the bindings, maybe kicked him in the stomach, maybe punched him in the head. Sometimes they'd moved him, once tying him to the bed in the middle of the room. He'd thrown up on himself that time, and they'd left him quickly after that. Once they'd brought him food, things that looked half-eaten and disgusting and very, very tempting, and set them down on the floor just out of reach, the wafting aroma driving him mad, before it had made him nauseous. They'd left a glass of water, too, so tantalizing that Ken had tried for what felt like a full day to reach it, before realizing that the whole thing was pointless. He'd begun to dream of water, too.

He didn't know how long he'd been in the room. There was no way to mark time, and he'd given up trying. Long enough, he knew, for him to be really hungry, but more thirsty, and weak with it. Long enough for him to recognize the heat of infection in his thigh. Long enough for him to have soiled himself, the smell driving him mad, making his pants stiff and stinging horribly where it soaked into the torn flesh of his leg.

Once, when he'd opened his eyes, he thought he saw Aya, and actually had cried out, in sheer relief and joy--before realizing that it was just a trick of the light, muffled voices outside the door, and a fading febrile dream.

He was really fucking scared.

This time, they entered the room, the light from the hallway spilling inside and stinging his eyes. This time, he knew it was different, a horrible sense of anticipation hanging in the air. Without untying him, they dragged him to another, a room that was much brighter, and somewhat warmer, although still not warm enough. Ken was really, really cold.

There were, of course, a number of steel rods hanging from the ceiling, at varying levels. Ken had seen enough torture chambers—and one, really, was too many—to not be surprised by it. He would have struggled, but he knew it just would be a waste of energy. His captors were professional, strong, and efficient. They dragged Ken to one of these and, using a pair of metal handcuffs, swiftly and efficiently cuffed him to one of the rods that was just above Ken's head.

Ken's right shoulder screamed in protest, and his vision went white with pain.

When he opened his eyes again, it took a moment to remember.

When he remembered, he wished he didn't. Nothing had changed.

He was still in this horribly bright room. The pain hadn't lessened, but his body had adjusted enough to it that it allowed him to stay awake. He was still freezing cold.

Ken didn't want to stay awake. Terror was choking him, cutting off voice, and thought, and breath. The ropes were rough, binding together his wrists, his feet in such a way that he could barely stand, most of his weight being supported by his arms, by the blaze of agony that was his shoulder.

He turned his head a fraction.

The four thugs who had brought him in here were gone. Two men, early twenties, wearing blue jeans and faded t-shirts, were standing and chatting off to one side, looking relaxed and casual. One was laughing slightly, scornfully, clearly teasing the other who was looking irritated and well on his way to angry. Apart from these two, another man stood, speaking quickly and loudly into a cell phone, frowning and running his hand through his hair in frustration. At the table, a large older man, fat with both age and dissipation and dressed in a finely tailored suit, sipped what looked like a cup of sake, speaking quietly with a younger man, smaller and uglier and cruel-looking, sitting across from him, who was holding ... what Ken really hoped wasn't a whip.

No one was really paying any attention to him, Ken noticed, not sure whether to be alarmed or relieved by this. Although he knew he was being ridiculous, he was very much embarrassed. These guys seemed like the kind of guys he'd be friends with, should be friends with, the kind of guys he was supposed to meet up with after work to watch a game. Normal, regular guys. He didn't like being seen like this by them, filthy and unkempt and powerless. Didn't like being ignored by them, treated like he didn't exist as a person, as a peer, not in their world. Like he was so worthless he didn't matter.

Not that it _really_ mattered; his bindings were tight, and he didn't have much energy to waste on his feelings of shame. All his energy was focused on standing and trying not to pass out again. Even though Ken wasn't sure that was altogether a wise use of his resources.

_Aya, _he thought, no longer caring about Aya being angry or annoyed and just needing Aya, needing the rest of Weiss to get here, now, now, ten minutes ago; trying and failing to choke down the panic induced nausea churning in his stomach, and willing Aya to hear him, _Aya, guys, now would be a really good time for you to come get me._

* * *

_End of Chapter 9 ... on to Chapter 10, where we may have actual plot (gasp!) Maybe. Thanks for reading._


	10. Chapter 10: The Heart of Darkness

_A/N: All disclaimers and warnings continue to apply; please refer to notes before the Prologue. Still sadly unbeta'd, any mistakes are my own, so please do feel free to tell me of them._

_I had a long and possibly amusing note here about author-angst and never-ending wips and suchlike, but it all amounted to an excuse and apology as to why this chapter took so long, and the real reason is—I just found it difficult to write. So sorry for the delay and, once again, as the initial warning warn, but really and truly, thisstory and this chapter particularly aredark and disturbing, so please take heed. It's very much M—nothing explicitly graphic, but definitely not for the under-aged or the faint of heart for all of that. So if you are anywhere under 18, please do not read this. _

_Note also that I did go back and tweaked chapter 9 a little, since I had pretty much written in an hour and posted, and well, I never do that--but nothing significant or meaningful has changed. I just feel slightly better now. So if it looks different, now you know why._

_And as much fun as it is to write fic, I really can't tell you how happy and thrilled I am, always, to get a review.__If you'd like a reply, please sign your review, and I will. _

* * *

_Chapter 10: The Heart of Darkness_

* * *

_Aya, guys, now would be a really really good time for you to come get me ... _

The door knob rattled.

Everyone in the room paused in what they were doing; everyone looked toward the door, tensing.

Ken raised his head, squinting through the bright light, through his bangs. His heart leapt. Maybe ... maybe ... _Oh, God,_ he thought, desperately, frantically,_ please, please, please be Aya, Omi, Yohji, please ... _

It wasn't Aya, or Yohji, or Omi. Ken felt himself swallow a bitter wave of disappointment. Things like last-minute rescues didn't happen in real life, didn't happen in his world, but ... for a moment, he'd dared to hope it would.

Idiot.

The man who did enter the room was much older--at least 60, with thinning white hair and fine wrinkles, slightly thick around the middle, and wearing an expensive imported suit. He had a soft, cultured voice, a calming manner, and a kindly air. There was also something about him that seemed ... a little foreign. Maybe it was the clearly foreign cut of the suit, Ken thought.

As he entered, everyone bowed respectfully in greeting, before resuming their previous activities.

The man walked up to where Ken was standing, bound to the bar. He inclined his head politely. "Hello, Mr. ... Siberian, is it?"

Ken didn't answer. Ken was gagged.

Ken certainly hoped the glare he was giving the man was as good as one of Aya's, though. Being around Aya so much, at least something useful should have rubbed off. He wondered, completely inappropriately, which of his traits Aya may have gotten in return. It would be too bad if ...

"Well, that's ok, lad," said the man, cutting into Ken's drifting thoughts. "I have no intention of telling you my real name, either. The difference is, under these circumstances, it won't matter, and I will likely find yours out anyway. It would just be easier for both of us—and certainly more polite--if you told me, and saved us some trouble."

_Definitely an acce_nt, Ken noted absently. _What did it matter, really_, was his next thought--but he'd been trained to notice these things, and now it was hard not to. He wanted to lie down.

The man spoke again. "I am known as Kobayashi-san." He paused a moment, before continuing, his tone still conversational. "You killed my daughter. My only child. For you, this is unfortunate."

The look in Kobayashi's eyes chilled Ken's blood. Suddenly, Ken was very much awake, and very much aware. Kobayashi paused for a moment, standing in front of Ken, before walking around him once, and then coming closer.

Kobayashi looked intently at Ken for a moment, and then raised a hand, and stroked Ken's hair. The touch was gentle, almost paternal. "You're a very good looking boy, you know," he said.

Despite himself, Ken cringed, and his skin crawled.

The look in Kobayashi's eyes was anything but paternal.

* * *

Friday evening. 

Ken had been missing for over forty-eight hours.

The chances of finding him at all, much less finding him alive, were growing slimmer by the second.

They'd reported, by now, Ken's absence as well as their mission failure to Kritiker. Kritiker, for their part, had been extremely silent. None of them were sure what that meant.

So they were eating dinner. Eating dinner, because Aya had insisted on it—clinging to routine and normalcy because if he didn't, he'd go insane and drag the others right along with him. Or so he thought. They'd scoured the warehouse for clues, looked at all the possible sites, and Yohji had clubbed in all the wrong places while Aya had hung around the docks and ... nothing. He didn't know, not anymore, what to do—he didn't have answers, and never had. And selfishly, he wanted his teammates close. Wanted them both—needed them both—close. So he'd insisted they eat a normal, simple dinner, on this Friday night. He'd even cooked.

A Friday night on which Yohji was staying in and Omi wasn't chatting on the 'net and Aya wasn't reading in his room and Ken ...

Ken wasn't here.

And none of them were actually eating.

He hoped he wasn't wrong, not giving into his instinct to keep searching, keep looking, keep going. Hoped that this wasn't the moment he should be out, or Omi should be hacking, or ... but no one else knew what to do, either. Because right now, Omi had reverted from calculating tactician to scared shitless teenager, and Yohji ... Yohji was never one to make decisions. So he'd had to, and hoped it wasn't wrong.

He just hoped.

"Hey, Omi, pass the soy sauce, will you?" Yohji's voice was lazy and casual, and likely sounded forced only to Aya's sensitive ears.

"We don't have any. Ken was ..." Omi's voice trailed off, and then became quiet. "Ken spilled it all last time he was cooking, and he said he'd pick some up after the mission."

"Ah. Doesn't matter. This is good without. Thanks, Aya."

Aya didn't respond, and then there was silence.

"Yohji-kun?" Omi's voice was too loud, too thin, too broken in the awkward not-eating not-speaking void. Too knowing. No school kid should sound like that, thought Aya.

"Yes, Omi-kun?" Yohji's voice was patient, calm; the man was as placid as a lake in winter. Aya had never appreciated Yohji enough before, he thought.

Omi fiddled a little more with the soup in front of him. "Do you ... if there's a ransom, do you guys think we could just pay it?"

"We'll find him, Omi. Don't you have every computer in the house running endless search patterns? You'll find him." Yohji's voice was steady, certain reassurance—nothing of the careless, indolent playboy, and everything that made him Balinese, and the asset he was to Weiss.

"I know. But if it came to it ... we'll just do what they ask, right? Anything they ask, to get him back?"

"Kid ..."

"I'm not a child, Yohji. I just need to know."

"Of course, Omi. If necessary."

"Even if it means going against Kritiker?"

"There's no need to be over-dramatic, Omi. Kritiker wants Ken back as much as we do." Aya broke in harshly, and knew even as Yohji turned sympathetically reproachful eyes to him that he hadn't meant to be so harsh. He just couldn't deal in what-ifs, or with Omi's hysterics. He just ... they needed to stay grounded, and focused. That was the only thing that would get Ken back, whole and healthy. He'd already had his moment of panic anyway, much to his humiliation. Further panic would accomplish nothing. They all now needed to focus. They had to get Ken back.

Aya wouldn't, couldn't allow anything less.

" ... just so you know, I've got savings, and it was ... it was my fault ... " Omi's voice was determined.

"What?" That startled from Aya.

Omi faltered at Aya's gaze, staring at the counter. His voice, when he spoke, was flat, the voice of someone confessing a sin for which they would not be forgiven. "You were distracted. You could have saved Ken-kun, you could have, if you hadn't been distracted by me. If the mission had been planned better. The money doesn't matter, Ken-kun matters now."

"Omittchi. Isn't that your college fund?" Yohji's voice was gentle.

"I didn't really plan to go anyway," Omi muttered dismissively.

Aya and Yohji exchanged a glance, but Aya didn't let himself get distracted, while making a mental note to discuss that with Omi another day. They really ought to have paid more attention to the kid sooner, but as it was, they had other issues. And they'd both assumed Ken had likely talked with Omi. Ken was like that.

"It doesn't matter," said Aya. "You know this. The kind of people that have him ... this is not a kidnapping. They won't ask for a ransom. Money will not get Ken back."

"But," said Yohji, "if it ever came to that, for any of us—if it's any choice, and whether or not Kritiker has left us on our own—we'll do what it takes, Omi. You know this. We're Weiss. And ... it wasn't your fault, Omi. It wasn't anyone's, except those who took him. It had nothing to do with you. If anything, I was supposed to be watching him. If there is anyone to blame, it is me."

"Yohji-kun! Certainly there was nothing you could have done—I had video surveillance, it was impossible to predict ... "

Yohji broke in impatiently. "Fine. So no one is to blame, but Ken is still out there. Kid, we're going to do whatever is necessary to get Ken back, but we're getting nowhere fast right now. Eat your soup."

But all of them were also thinking what none of them would voice. That wasn't what Kritiker would say. It wasn't what any of them had been trained to think. The official position would be ... It was Ken. His fault, and his alone, given that his teammates had all accomplished their portion of the mission. Ken. He was careless. If you're good, you don't get caught. _"If you get caught," _Aya remembered the words admonishing him to "_think on his sins_", remembered the hard, unforgiving tone, remember his anger and confusion and guilt as he lay gravely wounded in a hard, skeleton-staffed hospital bed, hurting and alone, "_you deal with the consequences._"He'd certainly had that much drilled into him, and if Kritiker hadn't made the simple edict abundantly clear before he'd finished his training, during that hospital stay after Crashers, Persia certainly had.

Aya wished the others would stop talking. Would Kritiker really block them from finding Ken? So soon? He couldn't think about it, and something in Aya wouldn't let him blame Ken, either, despite his training. Not yet. Aya knew he'd be angry, later, but for now ...

_Let Ken come home, _he prayed, to whatever gods were listening,_ let him come home, okay and in one piece, and I'll make sure he never forgets again. I promise. Just, please, let him come home first. _

_Please. _

* * *

It was all a little surreal—the bright lights, the normal looking young men lounging around, the well-dressed business men.

Ken didn't want to believe it was real. Ken wanted to imagine he was somewhere else, somewhere far away from here, somewhere where there was Aya and no pain and Yohji and Omi joining them later. Except the man in front of him kept talking.

"I have been looking for you, you know. For you. It was all for you, my pretty boy. You are my gift. And you ... you shall scream for me, prettily, and then .. then you shall tell me the names of all your fellows, and I shall kill them too." Kobayashi smiled, and the smile chilled Ken's blood. Defiantly, Ken rolled his eyes at the man's overblown words.

But Kobayashi's smile didn't waver. "You don't want to right now, I know, and that's ok. If you told us now, where's the fun in that? We'll leave the gag in for a bit yet, so you don't have to. By the time we take it out, and after we hear you scream for a while, we'll let you tell us, then. In the meantime, we can get to know each other. You wouldn't want me to think you were too easy, would you?"

Kobayashi reached out his hand suddenly. Ken turned his head violently away, as much as he was able. It was no use. The man turned his face forcefully back, fingers surprisingly strong, digging painfully into Ken's skin, and tilted his chin up. "Ah, I thought so, so it was you, after all. That day, in our club. I knew there was something not right about you, which is why we waited you out. You must think we are amateurs, to fall for so blatant a trick. You work for ... ah, yes, Kritiker branch, who picks up the street kids and uses them up. Of course. I'll have to thank Persia later."

Ken had no idea how the man knew all these things about him, no idea, and what he meant by calling Kritiker a branch. If possible, his fear rose another notch.

"That does change things," said Kobayashi, his tone considering. "But first things first. Jiro?"

Ken could do nothing to prevent the ugly balding little man—Jiro, he was called, Jiro--from removing what was left of his dirty, stained clothes. The man was efficient, fully exposing Ken in minutes and leaving him naked and defenceless under the bright lights while Kobayashi donned a pair of latex gloves, gazing at him critically. There was nothing Ken could do, as Kobayashi looked at him, touched him. Saw things only his doctors and lovers had seen, touched him in places only Kase or Ran had ever touched before. The gorge rose in Ken's throat, and he tried to suppress it, terrified of choking; sounds from deep in his throat escaping him despite the gag.

Kobayashi's voice was assessing, and shivering from pain and fever and fear, Ken was trying not to think about what he was saying. "Oh, just look at those ugly scars. They really are disfiguring, aren't they? Hmm. Well, I guess you wouldn't have fetched top dollar anyway, although there's a certain type that likes scarring. Likes to think that you've been hurt, and can be again. They're sometimes even willing to pay a little extra for it, so you may even be of some value to us later. But I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't I? We'll see how you do, first." Kobayshi took off his gloves.

"But otherwise, you really are quite good-looking." The kind, gentle voice seemed musing, and a fat, beringed finger drew a line down Ken's cheek, continued down the line of his neck. Ken shuddered away, still trying unsuccessfully to avoid the man's touch. "Ah, so young, so soft, just like her. Heedless boy, careless lad, you had no need to kill her. You young things today are always like that—no sense of responsibility. Well, you will need to learn consequence. So, since you have deprived me of my daughter, and since you won't do for the pure untouched sort ... do you think you may do to make it up to me for a period of time? It's only fair."

The man turned his hand suddenly, and the jagged edge of the brilliant green gem cut an unexpected, deep gash into Ken's skin. Ken would have screamed, if he'd been able, at the shock as much as the pain. But the only sound he could make was a tiny, startled and pathetically high-pitched squealing noise through the gag. A tear leaked from the corner of his eye.

The man smiled.

_Emerald_, Ken thought, remembering the name of the stone, because somehow, that was important. Emerald, like the earrings Yohji had once worn. But his thoughts remained scattered and vague even as, despite his terror and weakness, he tried unsuccessfully to gather them. He tried to breathe evenly. He failed. His heart was racing. Kobayashi spoke softly to the ugly little man beside him, before turning back to Ken, and smiling broadly.

Ken's vision had narrowed. He had no longer had any idea if there was anyone else in the room, no idea of anything else, because all he could see was that wide white smile. All he could hear was that voice. Fear was a live, choking force, cutting off his airways; fear was a sharp, acrid taste in his dry, swollen mouth. He saw everything happening, saw Jiro raise the whip, and he didn't have time to understand how beyond scared he was, he didn't have time ...

He heard the first blow smack across his skin long before he felt it.

Kobayashi's smile was moving. "Oh, I will enjoy you, I am sure. Three days. You may take a week—you are strong, and Kritiker's training is not bad, to be honest--but for most, three days is all it takes."

* * *

"Oh, Bombay, yes, please come in. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Omi nodded, bowing politely and smiling in greeting, but the smile was not genuine, and he didn't say anything. He didn't trust his voice just yet. He pulled a file from his backpack, and handed it over to this new Persia, this Persia he didn't quite trust.

"Oh, Omi. You are, you have always been, so very good. This is fine work. But ... I'm not sure ..."

"There was something wrong with the mission. There was something wrong with it, something Kritiker didn't know!" Even now, Omi wasn't sure if it was something they didn't know, or something they simply didn't say. He had become more and more suspicious of late. Normally, he would tell himself he was being paranoid, but now ...

Now his oldest friend, one of his teammates, one of his _family_, was missing. He no longer had the luxury of pretending. He had to know.

But Persia didn't at all seem rattled or disturbed by the implication, his voice remaining smooth and controlled. "My dear Bombay, there is always something I can't tell you. We only tell you what you need to know. You know that's always been the case."

Omi tried to remain calm, to remember everything his training had taught him, and everything it had not. "Yes, but this time ... Siberian was captured. And despite what Manx told us, as you can see from my research, Siberian is still listed as alive."

Persia laughed, and the sound did not appear particularly born of amusement. "Oh, my dear Omi—Mamoru—you are so hopeful. Always so hopeful. I'm afraid, on that point, your research is mistaken. Those files are Kritiker files—and because we simply haven't processed the paperwork yet, Siberian is listed as still alive and active, see? I'm sorry, my boy, to tell you this. But the unfortunate truth is that Siberian is quite likely dead, at least by now. I have had teams looking into this, you know—Weiss is a valuable team, and of course, Siberian is one of our own agents, and so young ... but I'm afraid our efforts have been ... Let me show you something."

Persia went to his desk, and from underneath it, pulled out a leather jacket. A brown leather, blood-stained bomber-style jacket that ...Omi couldn't help it. Despite his best efforts, he began to cry. He'd thought ... he'd been so sure ...

Persia's voice seemed as confident as ever, a note of practiced concern colouring it. "Please, don't carry on so. You are an assassin, as was he, didn't Persia raise you—train you--better than that? He was well paid—Kritiker pays well, as you know—and he was as well aware of the risks as you yourself. Rules of the game, I'm afraid. Dear boy, please don't distress yourself, do sit down." The jacket was pulled from his resisting hands, and locked again firmly in the cabinet.

"Please ... if you ... if you know anything ..."

"Mamoru-chan--you are upset. Your mission failed. I am very sorry for the loss of Siberian, but he will be replaced on your team. Even now, efforts are being made to locate a suitable replacement. Do not worry yourself. You didn't need to come here, particularly at what must be such a stressful time for you." Persia pressed a button on his desk, and Manx appeared, looking as unruffled as ever, but Omi could see the concern, the slight hint of fear in her eye. "Look, here is Manx. She will show you out."

Manx came up to him, put a hand on Omi's elbow. In her eyes there was a warning, and every instinct in Omi's body shrieked at him in unison.

Persia's eyes were suddenly on him, and the look in them was hard and cold. "Do you understand me, Bombay? Kritiker is taking care of the situation. Trust Kritiker. Let me handle it. If I were you, I would not ... worry about this again."

As he left, pushing open the heavy wooden door, Persia's voice called after him. "It is always good to see you, Bombay."

* * *

Ken had stopped counting the blows, had stopped trying to be brave, had stopped hoping someone would come, had stopped trying to do anything but wish it would be over, soon. He had prayed, he had begged, he had cried, and he had bled, and nothing seemed to help, to change anything, to make it stop.

He couldn't answer the questions they were asking. He wished they would stop asking. Even had they let him, it was the one thing he could not do.

He kept wishing it would stop.

Eventually, it did. They took the gag out, then, and cut him down. Dressed him. Laid him on a cot, and even gave him some water. Shaking, silently, he thanked whatever God had been listening, whichever God had heeded his prayers.

Someone was close by.

Hands were touching him.

Hands were touching him, and touching him, and he couldn't get away.

_He couldn't get away_.

Blindly, painfully, through his raw abraded throat, Ken screamed.

Ken screamed, and screamed, and remembered that he had died. He had died, in flames and agony, and God had hated him then, too.

* * *

_Chapter 11 follows apace (okay, that maybe a little strong, but it will come eventually) ... in the meantime (hint, hint), reviews are always welcome ..._


	11. Chapter 11: On the Seventh Day

_

* * *

On the Seventh Day __

* * *

A/N: The last chapter gave me grief, for several reasons, which made writing this next bit difficult—coupled with the sad fact that RL waits for no fic writer, and you get a very guilt-inducing delay, about which I feel duly horrible. Hope you will forgive me and are still reading--here is the next bit. I wrote it in a rush, so as always, I reserve the right to change it later. Heartfelt thanks to those still reading, and to everyone reviewing. It is very much appreciated. _

_All disclaimers and warnings continue to apply; please refer to notes before the Prologue. _

_**Please note: **This part in particular is rated a hard R at least, or whatever used to be NC-17, and it's meant to be dark and disturbing. Please don't read this part if you are under the age of 18._

* * *

On the third day, Manx sent them an e-mail. 

A body of a young man, unrecognizable, had been found in Tokyo harbour. The body was dark haired, and slim. The corpse had not yet been identified, but Kritiker would obtain tissue samples in due course.

Weiss were reminded of all the training they had had, and of what they already knew—that if Siberian still lived—and it was highly unlikely he'd have survived past the first 12 hours, and even on the off-chance he had--by now he'd have escaped, or they'd have found him. Kritiker valued its people. Kritiker had put all its resources into recovering its agent. Siberian was deceased. There was simply no other possibility.

Kritiker had provided Weiss with funds for a small memorial ceremony, just like when Momoe-san had died. Peacefully, in her sleep.

Kritiker advised that a replacement would be found. Omi told the other two, in a voice too bright and cheerful, that Kritiker had already begun looking.

A soccer game was on the T.V. in Weiss's common room. No one made any effort to turn it off, or to change the channel.

* * *

"Aya, is that you? Have you come for me? Please ... please talk to me. Aya?" 

"Kid, you were screaming in your sleep last night. Again. I heard you."

Omi jumped, startled from his frantic typing only by Yohji's hand on his shoulder.

"I ... I must have had a bad dream."

"Every night for the past few days?"

Ever since Ken was taken, neither of them said.

"Omi," said Yohji awkwardly into the silence that followed. "We'll find him. You know we will."

"I know." Omi's words were too quick.

The typing never ceased.

* * *

It was early, Friday morning. All the schoolkids—including Omi—were in the midst of exams, it had been raining steadily since before dawn, and the shop was deserted. 

Under different circumstances, finding himself with so little else to do, Aya would have amused himself by watching Ken.

Or, he thought, smiling now, by not letting the erstwhile Ken, who frequently shared his shifts, talk him into doing something idiotic. Like the time when ...

"Aya, will you come get ice cream with me?"

"I think there's some in the freezer."

"No, there isn't, and I _really _want some ... please?"

"Ken, it's after 10."

"So?"

"So, it's late and all the shops are closed."

"Not the one in Shibuya ..."

"That's almost an hour from here!"

"So?"

"Ken ..."

"I want ice cream," said Ken stubbornly, a hint of wheedle and whine creeping into his voice. "C'mon, Aya, live a little."

"I do live. I live a lot. I have a morning shift through which to live."

"Ayaaaa ..."

"Oh, fine, whatever. Go if you want to."

But somehow—and it was almost frightening how mindlessly it had occurred—Aya had found himself in his pretty white Porsche driving both of them to the ice cream parlour clear across town which was apparently the only place, according to Ken, that served the _right kind_ of ice cream.

And afterwards, Aya hadn't even _minded_, because Ken had, for the rest of the night, tasted like chocolate, dark and rich and sweet.

Aya knew that Ken hadn't had much to rely on in his young life. He knew Ken trusted easily—too easily--but what the others didn't know was that Ken rarely trusted all the way. He'd been burned too many times, from too young an age, both literally and figuratively. Ken had no idea what it was to really trust someone else, to rely on someone else—as loyal as he was to Weiss, Aya wasn't sure if he expected that same loyalty in return. As Aya had begun to know Ken, he had realized that Ken was still working towards being able to trust them. To trust _Aya_.

He didn't want to imagine what Ken was thinking, if he was still alive. He'd better be still alive. He _needed_ Ken home, Aya thought with a pang, home where he was safe and whole. He didn't want to think about ...

_Hang on, Ken_, he thought. _We're coming for you. Just hang on._

* * *

He had tried to keep track of the days, from what they were telling him, from what he could hear. From the pattern of when they came. 

But it was no use. Time had lost all meaning. There was only pain, now.

Ken couldn't tell anymore where he ended and the pain began. He supposed it didn't matter. There was only pain, and thinking about the pain led him to think about the nightmare that he was in. All he wanted, now, was for the pain to be over. He didn't care how.

It had been by Kobayashi's order that after the first session a group of guards had come and washed Ken down, cleaning him of blood and his own filth, before dressing him in an oversized yukata. They'd given him some water, and touched him as they'd done it, leering and taunting with comments that chilled Ken's blood. Drained of strength, uncaring, Ken hadn't fought their hands on him. Despite himself, the water had been a blessing, the touch of the thin, cool cotton a protection, and lying down a relief.

Kobayashi would be coming, they'd said, as they tied him to the cot. Ken had roused himself to struggle, then, but it was too late. But it was a kindness, a favour, they explained, as they easily overpowered his panicky, feeble attempts to fight them off. A privilege, he was told--one he didn't deserve, but had been granted nonetheless, and he should be grateful. Kobayashi was honouring Ken, they said, by coming to him personally. "Please," said Ken, hating himself for begging, his voice hoarse and weak, "Please, please don't do this." They'd only laughed as they left him tied to the cot and closed the door behind them, and their laughter in the darkness was not kind.

Kobayashi had come in afterwards, with some more guards, throwing on the lights, waking Ken from a half-doze. He wasn't sure how long he'd been lying there, but he thought he'd stopped bleeding.

They'd given Ken some more water, then fed him by hand. The smell of the food made him nauseous. Kobayashi pinched his nose to force him to swallow the food when he would have refused, stomach rebelling. Ken choked and gasped, although he managed not to vomit again. "Such a beautiful boy, you are," Kobayashi had said, smiling genially while Ken shuddered and gagged.

Then footsteps and movement, and the door opened, and closed again, and the lights dimmed. Ken didn't bother watching them leave. The room was silent, and still. He was grateful for the silence.

A touch on his hair, a stroking hand, caused him to jerk violently away, muscles tensing to the point of spasm. He was not alone. _He was not alone. _

Kobayashi's voice broke the silence. "A beautiful boy," he repeated. "So sweet."

Ken opened his eyes. Kobayashi reached for the belt of Ken's robe. Ken couldn't move.

Ken recoiled violently when Kobayashi touched him. Kobayashi had smiled.

It had been a surprise, Kobayashi had said, when Ken had earlier, and unwittingly, admitted that he had been untouched in that regard. A pleasing surprise. "Innocent," he'd called Ken then, smiling benevolently. "Like a child."

Ken knew innocence was what these men sold.

Ken hadn't thought he'd been innocent. He was an assassin. He hadn't thought he had anything left that was pure.

"Let's test Kritiker's training, shall we?" asked Kobayashi, still smiling in the same manner that one of Ken's most hated grade-school teachers had asked him a question in class that they both knew he couldn't answer. Kobayashi untied Ken's legs, then, and for a brief moment, Ken allowed himself a spark of hope. Under other circumstances, it might have been enough. But Ken was weak and ill from dehydration and pain. Kobayashi outweighed him by a good sixty pounds, and was healthy and well-fed. Even terror and adrenalin and skill weren't enough.

Kobayashi had laughed as Ken struggled and fought and swore. "Such a rare prize, you are," he'd said.

Ken's struggles opened his cuts, and his blood soaked the sheets.

Kobayashi didn't care.

Ken had been burned, badly, when he'd been seventeen. That pain had been excruciating, and he hadn't thought to survive.

This pain speared him; it was a violation, it was too intimate and fear was choking him and was this what Aya had felt? and then he hated himself too and Kobayashi was inside him, and he tried to push away and arch away and he squirmed and bucked and fought harder than he ever had but the ropes at his wrists were strong and he couldn't reach the knots and Kobayashi just laughed and there were hands on his hips bearing down and scratching and drifting lower and hands on his thighs spreading him too wide and his legs didn't bend that way and his bones would break and hands on his sides gripping his ribs hard enough to bruise and crush and he couldn't breathe and hands touching and pushing against his swollen shoulder and surely something there was broken and pain flared white against his eyes and something pushing past his gasps and screams into his mouth choking him and he would have bitten down if he could but he couldn't breathe and it kept coming and thrusting into him so deep he thought he'd break in half or rupture and a rough hand reached between his legs and gripped softness, squeezing and twisting until he screamed so high his voice actually did break and he was tearing and felt the warm rush of liquid and the pain was searing and too bright and it went on and on and he couldn't get away and couldn't escape ...

Before he'd pushed in, Kobayashi had paused and asked Ken, again, in a voice soft and kind, to tell him his name, and the name of his teammates. "That's all," he said. "I want their names, and yours. You don't have to tell me anything else. I can be gentle, if you tell me."

Ken had spat at him.

Afterwards. Kobayashi gathered Ken carefully close, even while Ken had cringed away. He'd held him, speaking to him softly and stroking his hair. In his pain and confusion, Ken had broken down and sobbed, clinging to Kobayashi like a child. And Kobayashi had held him, and kissed his temple, before pulling back and tilting Ken's chin up, smiling tenderly. _"What are their names, Siberian? Your name. Tell me." _

Still sobbing, Ken had shaken his head wordlessly, reaching out blindly for the comfort he'd just had. Kobayashi slapped him across the face, and got up to leave.

As he'd left, Ken had managed, with some unknown reserve of strength, to move his leg. To kick at Kobayashi, as hard as he could. He'd almost missed, but the edge of his foot caught Kobayashi in the stomach, making him gasp and clutch the wall before he'd continued on his way out. He didn't touch Ken again.

After Kobayashi left him, his men came in. They'd waited until Ken had finished throwing up, everything he'd been fed before and bile afterwards. One of them turned Ken's head so he largely soiled the floor and not himself or the bedclothes. "Poor kid," he thought he heard one of them say. Then they untied him, held him down, and broke his leg. Ken had passed out.

After that, who came, and when, and what they did to him—it had all gotten blurry. They took him away, and wherever they took him, they hurt him. There was no predictable pattern; no way to prepare himself or plan. Sometimes they left him, afterwards, in a room filled with others—crying children or silently shaking teens or screaming women—while he gasped and bled, and hearing their screams and cries was almost as bad as hearing his own. Sometimes they took him right back to his cot, to what he'd begun to think of as his cell, but that was no sanctuary. Outside, Kobayashi oversaw his torture; in his cell, whoever entered was free to torment him as they wished.

But lately, when he woke, he was alone.

Ken was used to being alone. Days before his sixth birthday, strangers had dropped him off at an orphanage, where he'd remained with other strangers. When he'd been eight, even more strangers had taken him to another. Years later, he'd become part of a soccer team, and then another—but by then, he hadn't been alone, because by then Kase had been with him. Just barely, as an alternate, but still. And then Kritiker had made him sign a contract, when he'd been dead and betrayed and no one had mourned his death. And after a time, there had been Weiss—Omi, the younger brother he'd never had before; then Yohji, an older brother he'd never missed until he had one; and then Aya, who had become ...

This wasn't alone. This was insanity. Worse than Kase's betrayal, this was abandonment and despair. This was so impossibly far away from love, from hope, from light, from all the rational things he'd ever believed.

The room was quiet, but through the walls, he could hear a high-pitched screaming, and a small hateful part of him was grateful it wasn't his own. He was too hot. The smell of bile and vomit made his gorge rise again, even as he tried to control it. But he was weak, and his body had betrayed him a long time ago.

He was able, at least, to turn his head.

As he did, he saw that they had left fresh food and water on a pretty tray by the door. Even at a distance, the water looked cool and refreshing, and Ken could imagine how it would taste on his tongue. He was no longer bound. He wondered if the door was locked.

He looked away. There was a small, high window in the wall in front of him, and the sky glowed bright and blue beyond.

He remembered playing soccer in the park, bright sunshine all around him.

He remembered fighting Omi for the last of the teriyaki shrimp; hollering at Yohji while Yohji held his hungover head in pain.

He remembered Aya laughing in the darkness, the sound rich and low and beautiful.

It hurt to think about them.

But he remembered being warm and comfortable and confident.

He remembered being hugged and held and loved.

He remembered, and remembered, and tried so hard not to.

His leg felt heated and unnatural. It was a bad break. Ken remembered that he had once dreamed of a soccer career. Now, that seemed so silly. He wondered if he'd ever play soccer again.

Soccer.

By now, hadn't he missed that game, AC Milan visiting at his old club team, a game he'd been desperate to see? He'd have made fun of the useless goalkeep, and have imagined if ...

Alone in the room, and despite the pain it caused, Ken began, weakly, to laugh.

* * *

Yohji heard Aya's voice coming from the basement, loud and annoyed. 

"Omi? Omi! Why aren't you at school?"

"I ... it wasn't important."

"Don't you have an exam?"

"I ... I don't need that class."

"You are expected to go to class, Omi. Your school called today, and I had to provide a reason for your absence."

"I ... I'm sorry," said Omi, sounding it. "I'm sorry, Aya, it won't happen again."

If Aya had gone silent in the days when Ken was missing, it was merely shades of silence, noticeable only to those closest to him. But it was Omi who was most noticeably affected by Ken's disappearance, Yohji thought, as he listened to Aya scold Omi about not destroying himself because it wouldn't help.

Because, of course, Aya was about the biggest hypocrite alive.

They all were.

And if Ken had been there, he'd laugh and tell them so.

* * *

They hadn't come for a long time, maybe even days, although Ken had lost track of any real sense of time. He thought they changed the food and water regularly, but he couldn't be sure because he never saw them. He always woke shivering, trying and failing to curl up against the cold, and the water was always out of reach. Sometimes, another person would be in the room—a child or two, or, a couple of times, a girl his own age who'd sat in the far corner and kept crying. She annoyed him. He'd tried to get out of bed several times, once even dragging himself as far as the door, but they'd come in before he'd managed to get to the knob. Sometimes, he dreamt of Kase, laughing while he burned. He didn't think he would ever be warm again. 

He wondered why they hadn't killed him yet.

"Well, Hidaka, you're kind of a mess, aren't you?" Aya, lounging gracefully on the edge of Ken's stained cot, raised one dark red brown scornfully.

Aya's arm was blackened. There was a faint putrid odour emanating from him. Ken couldn't remember the first time Aya had dropped in, but time seemed to move so differently here. The first few times he'd seen Aya, he thought he was dreaming—Aya had looked so _good_, so gorgeous and perfect. But Aya hadn't said anything those times. Every time he showed up, now, he was injured—a different injury each time, although none of them seemed life-threatening.

He and Aya hadn't fought, exactly, before his capture—but Ken remembered, dully, his refusal to Aya, and how it seemed to matter not at all anymore. He should have let Aya take what he wanted, he thought. He should have ...

In the beginning, Ken had harboured a foolish hope that someone—one of his teammates—would care enough to come find him. Had thought of them looking, had imagined all the things he'd do for them if they'd only just come and get him.

_"Oh, you are hoping that you'll be rescued, do you? Hmm. By ... Abyssinian, hmm? No, no, my boy, he was killed. He was killed, and then, the other two—Bombay, yes, and oh, what is it .. right, right, Balinese. Such fun little names. Yes, those two, the blondes, the little one and the tall one—only one is natural, you know, or maybe you don't, being such a casual sort yourself—well, they ran away, and your Kritiker ordered them not to return. No, my dear, you can't hit me, no, please don't try, Jiro doesn't like it. See, you'll only end up hurting yourself ... Anyway, yes, your friends, such a pity too, I'd have loved to add them to my collection ... oh, but the red-head, his death certainly was pretty, my, yes, all blood and his intestines all beautifully exposed ... oh, dear, now you are crying. I do so hate tears ... please stop, on your own or I'll have to ask Jiro here to help you again, and neither of us would like that, would we?" _

Aya was dead, Ken knew. They'd told him, at the very beginning, and then repeatedly thereafter, and Ken hadn't believed them. They'd said all kinds of things. They wanted him to tell them, all about his teammates, because it didn't matter any more. They'd told him his teammates didn't care, that Kritiker had abandoned him, that Weiss was dead. And for a long time, he hadn't believed them. He still wasn't sure he did.

They'd punched him in the stomach until he threw up again, his throat burning from the bile. They'd brought flame, laughing as Ken cowered away, unable by then even to scream.

_"Tell me their names, Siberian. Tell me." _

He no longer even needed to refuse, having lost his voice ... he couldn't remember how long ago. He'd stopped wondering why Kobayashi even needed to know. He no longer cared. But still ... Weiss hadn't come. Omi, Yohji, Aya ... Ken had waited, and waited, in Kobayashi's huge and visible warehouse ... and Weiss hadn't come.

Still, he couldn't betray them.

He'd seen others—kids younger than him, and innocent, beaten and sold. He heard their screams in the night, as the guards had fun with a few of them, They'd even made Ken watch them hurt one small boy, Kaito, who'd been briefly housed in his room, and who'd dared to try to run away—Kaito had been small enough to fit through the small high window, and smart enough to get there--at Ken's unthinking instigation. One of them had held Kaito down as the other had his turn, laughing, and afterwards, Ken had been the one throwing up and screaming while Kaito comforted _him_, and how useless was that?

"_Trust me_," he'd told Kaito. _"I promise you'll be safe._" He hadn't thought he was lying.

Because Ken had secretly believed it too. Had wanted to believe. Had wanted to hope, to believe he was going home, where Aya was waiting, wanted to laugh at the guys scrambling to cover his shifts, wanted to smile when they made him tea and let him watch all the soccer he wanted as they always did whenever he was sick or injured. Had thought about paying Kaito's mother's boyfriend, who'd also liked to beat on kids, a visit with his bugnuks afterwards. Thought maybe Omi would be happy to join him.

It had been such a nice fantasy.

Ken could still hear Kaito's screams as they'd whipped him, and raped him; as he'd cried and begged and sobbed for his mother.

And after it all, Kaito hadn't escaped. No one had come to save him. No one had come to save any of them.

Kaito, so bright and energetic and determined, so much like the Kase Ken remembered that it hurt.

Ken knew he couldn't escape. And no one would come to save him either.

Kobayashi had won.

"I'm sorry, Aya ... I've been here a long time, I ... I wanted you to come for me, a long time ago, but you haven't. You're not coming for me, are you?"

"What do you think?"

"I don't know ... I can't remember ... and I don't trust them, but they said ... you must be dead."

"Pathetic, is what this is," Aya's voice cut in. "Look at you. Weiss doesn't do rescue and salvage jobs. Have you forgotten what it is to be an assassin?"

Ken looked up sharply. He didn't know how to defend himself against this Aya, not the lover he'd come to cherish and adore, but the arrogant, contemptuous beauty who had first joined Weiss. "I ... I didn't expect this," he said. "I ... " _Oh, God. I never expected this._ But Aya had reminded him. Why Kritiker hadn't spent much time on capture. Life. Death. Kill. Yourself, your teammates, if necessary. Whatever was necessary for mission success. There was only mission success, and there was not. Kritiker hadn't spent much time on capture, because ... if Aya followed protocol--and Aya was all about protocol--he'd come only to kill Ken, now. And only because Ken hadn't done it for himself.

But Ken still desperately wished for Aya to come. Even if Aya came only to kill him, Ken would still feel nothing but gratitude and relief, and happiness to die by Aya's hand. He didn't want to exist like this. This .. this was never supposed to happen. This was never supposed to happen. For victims, maybe. But ... he was young. He was strong. He was a killer. He was _good, _he told himself desperately. He had been _good_. He was Weiss. Unless he'd screwed up, and he honestly couldn't remember how ... but he must have. Because otherwise, _this wasn't supposed to happen. _

Not to Weiss.

Not to him.

* * *

Aya watched a little boy playing with a ball in the park, and smiled. The kid reminded him of Ken. Tousled brown head, flashing limbs, and filled with energy and vitality and joy. He could almost see Ken, now, if he just tried. He watched him now, running, jumping ... 

A hand on his shoulder made Ken disappear.

Yohji.

"We'll find him, Aya. Not just for you, and not just because he's your lover—but because we have to. Because he's Weiss. Because without him, none of us exist."

* * *

Omi was crying in his sleep as Aya walked by, protesting something no one else could see. 

Aya hesitated, and then pushed open the door.

"Omi," Aya muttered, leaning over the bed, placing one hand gently on the damp forehead. "Omi."

Blue eyes snapped open and harsh breathing filled the room.

"You were dreaming."

Sense chased confusion out of the blue eyes, leaving only fear and wariness.

"You are Tsukiyono Omi, you are Weiss, you are home, and you are safe. Know this."

Omi didn't say anything, staring at Aya.

"And know this too. We are Weiss. We will find him." And Aya sat down beside the bed, and waited until Omi fell asleep.

* * *

Omi saw the requisition, and blocked it again. Kritiker was looking for a replacement for Ken. But Omi couldn't have a new agent sniffing around the Koneko, not right now. 

Omi hadn't been able to find out much. But what he did know was that ... Kobayashi's organization was related to Kritiker. Siberian had been marked as "Reassignment—training program: Experimental, compensation to be determined." Siberian's status was listed as "_Inactive, to be terminated." _

All of which meant that ... Kritiker had lied to them, and Ken was still alive.

Omi wasn't sure what condition Ken was in ... but Omi was fairly sure that time was running out. The older two had no idea of what he knew. They had no idea how deep, and how dark, Kritiker went, or was. Omi did.

The record was sealed—and so far, he hadn't been able to find any further information—no details, no location. Omi had had to hack for three days even to get as much as he had, only to find that – the record was a paper file only, not online, and accessible only to Persia.

But there were others ways to find out what he needed.

He couldn't tell the others. It would compromise them.

But it didn't matter. Time was always the enemy, and it was hard to say how much time was left, so he had to focus, focus on what mattered. Ken wasn't dead. Ken was alive, and still within Kritiker's net. Ken was alive, and if Ken was alive ... Omi would find him.

He'd find him.

* * *

"Omi?" 

"Omi, is that you? Is ... Is Aya dead? Where is Aya?"

"Is it my fault? Did he die ... they told me he died because of me. Please, Omi, please tell me he didn't ..."

"Please Omi, we've known each other for so long ... you can tell me, please; please I need to know ..."

"I knew you wouldn't be able to come for me. I didn't really ... you know, it's ok. I don't mind. I know you have other things to think about. But ... "

* * *

On the seventh day, Weiss was ordered to stop looking for their fallen member. They were warned of consequences if they failed to obey.

* * *

"Aya? They told me you were dead." 

"Did they?"

"But you're not dead, are you? Aya, please. Please, Aya. Tell me you're okay?"

"I suppose I am."

"You're bleeding!"

"The dead don't bleed."

"But that looks really ... I mean, gut-wounds are ... "

"I can't feel it."

"I ... I guess. I can't feel much anymore either."

_

* * *

End of Chapter 11.

* * *

_


	12. Chapter 12: They Also Serve

_A/N: All disclaimers and warnings continue to apply; please refer to notes before the Prologue. _

_Please note too: I thank everyone who has left comments for all your comments and for reading—I really do appreciate it. But as for the rating—I know others may not consider this fic quite NC-17, but it definitely approaches NC-17 given the adult themes and certain scenes, and certainly deserves at least its M rating. Again, I can only ask you—if you are underage, for both our sakes, please skip this fic and read something else. For my part, I am assuming everyone who reads my fic is mature enough to do so._

_In any event, now that writing the graphically horrible bits—which I really, really procrastinated about writing, to be honest—are over, hopefully the next parts should come a bit quicker. I like writing the fluffy fun stuff much better—grim bits are just so ... grim ..._

_And as much fun as it is to write fic, I really can't tell you how happy and thrilled I am, always, to get a review, either positive or critical. I am interested to hear as much about what you don't like as what you do. If you'd like a reply, please sign your review or leave an address, and I will. For my unsigned and anonymous reviewers: a heartfelt thousand thank yous._

* * *

_Chapter 12: They Also Serve _

* * *

On the seventh day, Weiss was ordered to stop looking for their fallen member, and accept Kritiker's confirmation of his death. It was distracting them. They were to be re-listed on active duty a week from this date. A replacement for their fourth member would be found.

They were warned of consequences if they failed to obey.

They were also quietly supplied with an array of drugs, both legal and non, to assist them with ... their focus.

Persia conveyed his condolences via Manx.

Aya punched a hole in the wall of their common room. Yohji disappeared. Aya covered his shifts and Ken's that afternoon and throughout the following day.

Omi didn't leave his room. At all, except to show up dutifully for his scheduled shift. He showed up, unfortunately, two hours late.

On Sunday, Aya simply closed the shop. Yohji came back that evening, unwashed and unshaven, reeking horribly of smoke and booze and with his ubiquitous sunglasses hiding his eyes. He went straight to his room. He didn't even look at Aya. Omi remained in his room. Aya left a plate of food outside each of their doors.

That night, Aya sat in the basement, nursing a cup of tea. It was warm in his hands.

There was nowhere else to look. They'd exhausted all avenues.

Ken might already be dead, he thought. That's what Kritiker said. They'd told them the DNA matched. Ken was already dead.

The teacup shattered in his hands.

He couldn't lose Ken. The thought was unbearable, unthinkable. After his family, and Aya, and ...

He couldn't lose Ken.

He wouldn't allow it.

Omi's voice, strained and exhausted, interrupted his thoughts.

"Manx just e-mailed me."

He looked up. Omi and Yohji were both in the room, and the light was on.

On the eleventh day, Bombay let the other two know that Kritiker had assigned Weiss a new mission. A mission consisting of little more than straightforward elimination and data recovery. A simple one.

A mission for all of Weiss.

A three man mission.

* * *

It took a full day, between shifts, to organize the mission. None of them had any time in between to continue the search for their fallen teammate. It was a relief. Although he refused to acknowledge it, Aya's search had been impeded, more recently, by a growing sense of futility. He'd watched his sister lie in a coma and not wake up, but he'd forced himself to keep waiting, keep hoping, despite what everyone else said. Surely, Aya told himself, he was strong enough, would _make_ himself strong enough, to do this for Ken also. But in private moments, he wondered ... he wasn't sure he could bear waiting so long again, and hope was such a fragile thing next to the weight of his despair.

But now Weiss—Aya--had a mission to focus on, and they were professionals. Despite everything, by the following night, they would be ready. He would be ready.

The following night, he was ready.

It was surprising how easy it was, despite everything, to become Abyssinian again. To become a living weapon, a tool of Kritker—memorizing entrances and routes and passwords, practicing katas and swordwork, preparing himself to creep and catch and kill—and this mission really was, as Omi had said, very simple. In fact, the tape supplied by Persia had been little more than Persia stating, as he had countless times before, that these dark beasts must be denied their tomorrows, and that the mission files would provide all the necessary details. Rather more curt than Persia usually was, in truth—the mission tape really did sound like a rote description more for demonstration's sake than anything else. But the mission files really had been more than sufficiently detailed, and Omi's research thorough as always, so it really didn't matter anyway.

He did his katas, and he dressed in his mission gear, buckling his coat over it all. He was calm. He was centered. He was focussed. He was a blade, a weapon, a tool. He was the mission given life and purpose and shape. He was Weiss.

He slipped past the sadly dusty motorcycle to climb into Kudoh's gleaming and overly flashy convertible, and the smell of smoke enveloped him. Aya was instantly annoyed, and grimaced in distaste—what kind of idiot assassin drove a car as obvious as this, and smelled so distinctively of American cigarettes, and, wonderful, now he was going to reek as well thanks to that pea-brained loser moron Kudoh--and sat in the back while Yohji drove them down to the warehouse on the dock, where all Japan's most heinous criminals apparently plied their illicit, perverted trades.

Aya remained silent as Yohji bitched and moaned, cigarette in one hand, about how Kritiker was practically forcing them into doing this mission—which was essentially true, the gods knew that despite the dearth of women in many of them, even the great Kudoh couldn't repeatedly refuse missions—when they'd as good as promised Weiss the extra week off before assigning a replacement and putting them back on active status. "We're _inactive_," Yohji whined, his voice droning on and on and threatening to ruin Aya's focus with the extent of his irritation at the blond, "and then we got to go and get a fucking replacement, without so much as a by your leave and thanks for playing, and why the fuck is Kritiker making us haul ass out in the middle of the night in goddamned fucking freezing December as if we were their fucking lapdogs and existed solely to fetch and carry for them at their goddamned bloody _whim_ ..."

Aya absolutely did not think about Ken, who was the one being replaced so callously, and how Ken, if he _had_ been there, would have rolled his eyes and grinned at Aya, and made tactless remarks about the weather that would have Yohji diverted and retaliating with some cutting innuendo or disparaging remark about the effect of cold on our shy _little_ Kenken while Omi defended Ken by rote and Ken yelled in outrage and Aya, who'd been on the receiving end and was in a position to know, would just sit there smirking about the divergence between reality and Yohji's depraved imaginings until Ken would finally clue in loudly as to what Yohji really meant and lean over and flex his bugnuks in even greater outrage and indignantly demand to know, over Yohji's vociferous snickering and Omi's sudden fit of giggles _even on their way_ to a dangerous scary mission in which someone would certainly die, in what Ken thought of as an undertone but what everyone else referred to as a yell, why Aya was smirking and making no effort to even _defend_ him ...

"I'd rather have Ken-kun," said Omi in a small voice, bringing Aya abruptly back to the present. And Yohji paused in his ranting, car lurching wildly as he drew it into a one-handed turn well over the speed limit, to reach a hand over and grip one of Omi's, hard. "It'll be okay, Omittchi. It'll be okay."

But it never would be, again, the hard reality of going to a mission in which Ken was not injured or hadn't refused but was simply _not there_ even more distracting than Kudoh could ever be and so Aya was definitely not thinking about Ken, or the way ... sharply forcing himself to consider instead how it was that the dissolute and careless Kudoh was such an effective assassin—and Aya had to admit that Balinese was as good as any of Weiss at what he did—although Yohji reeked of cigarette smoke and had no focus Aya could discern and had to be hungover ninety percent of the time ...

Which, Aya knew, was completely unfair, and now Aya felt a brief twinge of shame. The man might wear glamour like a cloak and confidence like a shield—but that's all it was, outer trappings, the crater-sized ego and thronging admirers part and parcel of the veneer--and Aya should know better. Yohji felt worthless enough too much of the time, and didn't need or deserve his teammate—and friend, if Aya was pressed—to make him feel worse.

Yohji was smoking too much, lately, Aya thought, the tendril of concern now taking hold of Aya's wandering thoughts. In fact, the blond playboy was rarely without a cigarette these days. He was also home very little, barely using his rooms to catch a nap or change before rolling out again with a careless wave and a blase smile, dismissing Aya's anger and Omi's gentle reprimands with the same degree of casual disregard. Leaving Aya to cover his shifts because he knew--as unobservant as the others thought he was, he was first and always an assassin and he did see things—that he was the responsible one and that was just the way he was and Yohji knew that and both he and Kritiker expected him to pick up his slack-- as well as the extra money; that Kudoh knew Aya needed the extra money despite everything far more desperately than Yohji ever could; and most of all, that Kritiker was unhappy with Weiss, and as such they couldn't afford right then to have any slack at all, and so Aya really had no choice as assumed field leader but to ensure that everything continued to run smoothly and up to expectation; and finally because Aya slacking off would be certainly remarked upon far more than Yohji's slightly more frequent than usual indulgences.

Aya recognized that Kritiker was displeased and watching closely, although it had never been stated in so many or so few words or at all, and also that this was a large part of the root cause of Omi's sleepless nights and hollowed eyes. But he also knew that Omi, as was his wont, would deny any problem and chirp extra-merrily at him if he asked. It was Omi's way of protecting them, even if they'd never asked for protection, and even if they were in some ways better equipped to handle a lot of things than Omi would ever--by Persia's careful design--be.

But most importantly, Aya was completely and both gratefully and resentfully aware, without having to ask, that most of what Yohji did while he was away and Aya was covering for him was use the time to scout, in the hopes of finding Ken, for information, far more effectively than Aya ever could. Yotan would have made a fantastic spook, Aya had always thought—he was terribly charming, sharp-eyed, almost as ruthless as Omi, could read people like a book and had a knack for blending in wherever and with whomever he was. Aya might have been a damned good assassin and swordsman, he may also have lived a variety of lives--privileged kid, careful student, dangerous killer, common labourer—but he never had blended in or been able to engage in the easy exchange of casual conversation that was second-hand to Yohji. Perhaps if everything had been different Ran would one day have been at home in the MBA program he'd once dreamt of, with the other shy, studious, socially-awkward types—but the Aya of today would never fit in there either, not by a long shot. Aya was either unapproachably dangerous or mockingly dismissible. Yohji was neither unapproachable or mock-worthy, but gave off just the right edge of dangerous to hold his own, ordinary and unthreatening enough to gather information without being unusually memorable or noteworthy, and so damned charismatic that men and women both fell all over themselves to tell him anything he might graciously indulge them to hear. And as Aya's attempts to gather information proved increasingly fruitless, all he _could_ do was cover for Yohji and allow Yohji to do what Aya was forced to accept he himself could not. It was a galling admission, and more so because as close as they all were and damn his pride, deep down it wasn't just that he wanted Ken to be found safe yesterday, _he_ wanted to be the one to do it. Instead he'd been relegated, once again, to performing meaningless and menial jobs as his loved ones suffered, while he only stood and waited, while others with more skill or talent or ability did more, waiting for news that never came. And Aya couldn't help the rage his helplessness and frustration caused in him.

It made him feel marginally better to direct his anger at Yohji, undeserved or not (because frankly, even Yotan at his best often got under Aya's skin) even while he was fully aware that it wasn't with Kudoh that he was really angry. It was with himself, shy and stupid and inept Ran with his pathetically high academic achievement, knack for saying the most wrong thing always, and overly conspicuous, ridiculous appearance, that he truly despised. And so Aya sat there, stewing and irrationally angry, while Kudoh spun his idiotic laments; irritated and heartsick and so completely losing his focus that ...

The groan of brakes, and they were there. In front of a non-descript industrial warehouse in the harbour district, indistinguishable from all the other non-descript industrial buildings in the area. It looked dark and closed for business, with no light visible from the outside, no movement discernable, no cars to be seen in the tiny lot.

Yohji flashed his killer smile at Aya as they climbed out, removing his sunglasses for the mission and tucking them into a concealed pocket. He winked, unaffected by Aya's equally killer glare as Aya flipped him off, while internally Aya scrambled to recover his focus, his center;_ become_ the mission once again. He tried not to notice how the smile never quite reached Yohji's eyes, or the wry twist to Yohji's mouth as he ran through his self-imposed final weapons check—something Yohji always in the last minutes after arrival and before any mission in his book actually began—for him, because Aya and he had argued multiple times about the point at which Weiss should expect to be mission ready, and they were yet to agree. The other two were of no use in the arguments either, mostly ignoring them and doing their own thing—and appealing to Omi only resulted in a look of disgust and a flat refusal to pull rank to decide something that was in his Omi's words, "stupid and trivial."

And then Yohji looked up and gripped Aya's bicep firmly, his gaze serious and direct, and even though Aya normally loathed casual touch, that grip and the look in Yohji's eyes conveyed everything he needed right then—friendship, support, and unconditional acceptance. He was Weiss, Yohji was saying wordlessly, and they were the best. They stuck together. And together, they were invincible.

He was Weiss.

Then Balinese smacked him smartly on the head. "Focus, Abyssinian. We go in, we get out, we get away clean. Nothing fancy." His own words, echoed back at him.

And Aya took in a deep breath as Yohji--back to being Yohji--dramatically flung out his arm, adjusting with his other hand the earpiece Bombay handed him—the chibi was meant to hang back near the car and monitor remotely until time for the data transfer--and announced in a stage whisper: "Showtime."

* * *

Balinese glided stealthily up along the narrow corridor, smooth and silent, barely a dust mote disturbed by his movement. He was glad he'd drawn the target when he'd rock-paper-scissored--or cheated if one must be technical--Abyssinian for it. Fujimiya was just too damned distracted—which meant he'd be liable to make mistakes. And mistakes, in their line of work, were fatal. _Especially_ on a mission like this, where they were short a man and forced to each go it alone, distraction was like an engraved invitation to the shinigami. And if he was honest with himself—and he tried to be, brutally, albeit only in his own head--he was only marginally less exhausted and preoccupied and grief-stricken than Aya. He was just glad that so far, this mission had been cake, with the building apparently abandoned. He'd have worried about whether it was too easy, but he wasn't that kind of man, and left that kind of thing to his more fretful teammates. He just took it as it came. And anyway, this mission was such a mistake, the timing and the stupidity and the whole bloody useless thing, he'd have royally loved to personally demonstrate to Kritiker just how to fuck themselves ... Ah. According to Bombay's spec's, the target would be ... just about ...

Bingo. Small corner room, small hopefully unlocked door. He tried the knob.

The door was unlocked. Yippidy do dah.

He eased open the door.

And ... was assaulted by a stench so powerful he nearly gagged, almost turning involuntarily away. But he needn't have worried. The room itself was ... pretty much empty. Deserted, actually, as the rest of the building was; while the room showed signs of recent use, it looked like all the other rooms here had, like no one had been here for at least a day or so. Biting back the bitter taste of disappointment and a flash of anger at Kritiker's poor research and the waste of Weiss's time, Balinese swore under his breath, scanning the room with a trained eye, looking for any clue, any sign of his target, and saw only ... Hard-backed wooden chair. Table covered with some small knives, remnants of rotting food, papers and debris. Closed cabinet in the corner. Tiny window overlooking an empty expanse of concrete. Small lumpy iron cot off-center, covered in disordered bed-clothes, dirty and stained.

Yohji sighed, and started to turn away.

The mass on the cot moved, just slightly. He thought.

Balinese narrowed his eyes, moved closer to investigate. There was ... dear God ... there was a body lying on that disgusting mattress. Matted dark hair. Bloodied and swollen face. Skinny, distorted limbs, tied at wrist and ankle to the iron frame of the bed. Pity and revulsion rose up in Balinese's throat; training kept him steady. _Poor, poor kid_, he thought, readying his wire to kill the poor sod quickly if necessary—he couldn't leave the fellow to rot here, nor could he leave or bring back any witnesses, Bombay had been _explicitly_ clear about the mission parameters, although maybe he should check first, because this guy was so clearly a victim, pretty far gone to remember anything anyway, and if they timed it right, they could just as easily leave an anonymous tip for the authorities and damn Kritiker anyway --_whoever he ..._

The lump moved again. Eyes the colour of melted chocolate snapped open

Startled, Yohji called the lump by name.

"KEN!"

_

* * *

__End of Chapter 12 ... on to Chapter 13, the ironically titled "Twelfth Night" ..._ (see how my careful numbering backfired ...) 

_In case you were wondering, "They also serve" is a line snippet from a sonnet by the very well-known seventeenth century Puritan poet, John Milton. This is the final line from one of his sonnets (in which he alludes to the loss of his vision--Milton went blind in later years--which is just for your info, and entirely irrelevant for my purposes). Regardless, the line inits entirety reads: "They also serve who only stand and wait." One of my favorite lines ever, I thought it was kind of fitting for Aya in the circumstances._

_Also, forgive me the eye colour description. I couldn't help myself. _

_Thanks for reading, comments welcome. Sorry the chapter's so short._

* * *


	13. Chapter 13: Cue the Cavalry

_A/N: This chapter is unfortunately half author's note ramble. It is a sad thing, really, when I can get away with rambling on in this fashion, but this is the state of the world in which we live. I also shamelessly grovel for reviews in this part, and warn you in advance. It is not pretty, and I'm not proud of it, but there you go._

_All disclaimers and warnings continue to apply, please refer to notes before the Prologue—i.e. still rated R, still not owned by me, please don't copy or archive elsewhere without my permission (drop me a line if you'd like to do so first), still making no pretence of accuracy, canonical or otherwise, still unbeta'd and still under construction, etc. etc.. Don't blame me, later; I really did try to disclaim this thing about as thoroughly as anyone could. _

_It is equally not my fault—and let me take a minute to rant—about how irritatingly long and complicated this fic has become. I blame someone else entirely, quite possibly the kid who made fun of me in grade school, for this sorry state. Honestly, this started out less—plotty—than it has become, and therefore, there is a delay warning—I have to think again about the next bit, and that never bodes well. I had a vague idea of how I wanted this fic to go when I started, and it's still going in that general direction, but it's kind of taking the scenic route instead of the assigned, clearly marked highway on my easy-to-read map, and I think I'm being confusing, which means I have to re-jig a fair amount now. In the meantime, I'm wasting time with author's notes. _

_Thank you again to everyone who has read and reviewed thus far; hope you continue to enjoy. _

* * *

_Chapter 13: Cue the Cavalry_

* * *

"Ken!"

This was a new one, Ken thought dazedly. He hadn't yet had any delusions where Yohji came to visit. Odd, that, since he chatted regularly with both Omi and Aya, now. He wasn't displeased; seeing Aya decomposing was disturbing, and he liked Yohji—aside from everything, when he bothered, the Yohji he remembered often had interesting things to say. But this Yohji was looking shocked and horrified and appalled, and Ken wasn't in the mood for chatting right now, or calming Yohji down from whatever upset he had suffered. So Ken blinked Yohji away.

He blinked, and blinked, but Yohji didn't go away. Alarmed, Ken wondered if he had been drugged again.

Because no, this Yohji didn't go away; this Yohji was more annoying, a little smellier, solid in a way that his dreams hadn't been, and when he touched Ken, it hurt. Yohji, alive and sweaty and bloody and real, whose light, teasing tones offered comfort and normalcy and safety even as he cut away the ropes binding Ken down to the stinking, stained mattress; but even when they were gone, Ken couldn't move, couldn't get up, and Yohji was touching him and moving him and it hurt, it hurt ...

"... Yo... Yo ... " he whispered, his voice raspy and strained—he knew somewhere between the coughing and the screaming, at some point, his voice had just given out. He couldn't remember when, couldn't remember how long, because neither Omi nor Aya had needed him to speak aloud... and there were things he wanted to say, but his thoughts weren't organized, his body wasn't listening, and the words wouldn't form; he was cold, cold and Yohji was still speaking, smiling at him broadly, relief and fear naked in Yohji's eyes; still murmuring soft nonsensical reassurance and calling him irritating nicknames and scolding him gently for missing his shifts over the past few days, and Ken wanted to apologize for that, for all the fuss, feeling hugely embarrassed at the state he was in, realizing as he now did that this Yohji may be real ... but his voice was still not saying what he meant it to say, and all he could manage were gasps and attempts to say Yohji's name, even if he wanted to ask where Aya was, what Omi was doing ... if they were ok ... had they saved the kids, were they ok, he needed to know ... they had to be ok, and even if Aya was dead, at least Omi, at least Omi had to be ok ... he wanted to explain that he hadn't given them away, even if it didn't matter and Kobayashi-sama was right and they'd given him up, even then, he'd never give them away ...

And then there was Aya, suddenly, looking as beautiful and perfect as ever--and Ken started to shake. Started to shake in relief, because it was lies, it had all been lies, he'd been right and it had all been a lie and Aya was safe and Aya was fine and ...

"Aya," Yohji snapped, the jarringly harsh tone cutting across Ken's confused thoughts, "give me ..."

But Aya had taken one look at Ken and was already stripping off his long mission coat to lay over the younger boy, to wrap it around him and pick him up, ignoring Ken's cry of protest, his weak struggle in a completely ineffectual attempt to stand; Yohji still speaking, " ... easy, Kenken... easy ... don't try to move, just relax ...", and Aya interrupting, curtly ordering him to simply, "Be still." Then they were running toward the car, Ken slung over Aya's shoulder, and every step Aya took shook fresh waves of pain through Ken's body, and even though he was glad they had found him, even though he knew he had no right to ask for anything more, he wanted to ask them to wait, to stop, to let him catch his breath; he couldn't breathe and it hurt so much ...

* * *

He was wrapped in something heavy and warm that smelled like blood and sweat and ... Aya, and it was comforting, even if he couldn't feel much of anything past the deep, bone-numbing cold. His head was in someone's lap, and someone was holding his hand and pressing another hand hard against his side and telling him not to worry. He heard the low, soothing rumble of an engine, smelled soft leather, and tried to smile. He wasn't worried, he wanted to say. The pain had drifted away, and he was feeling a lot better. He would have said something, if he'd been able, but he wasn't so he let it go.

But ... "The kids?" he managed to whisper, because he needed to know. Because ... he couldn't remember why, but he knew it was very, very important.

Reassurances followed, then, quickly, telling him they were fine and everyone was safe and he shouldn't worry, and he was irritated, because he couldn't decide if the voice was telling him the truth or not. He was sure, after a moment, that it was Omi talking to him, although he wasn't so sure he could stay awake, even though that's what Omi seemed to think was important. But Omi wasn't always right, he knew, even though he liked Omi lots, and knew Omi was a lot smarter than him, and even though he usually tried to do more or less what Omi wanted. Omi was in charge, and while surprises annoyed Aya, it truly upset Omi when things did not go the way they should. Omi was just less vocal about it than Aya, and it made Omi happy when the others did what he asked. Omi didn't usually ask for much anyway, and Ken liked making people happy. If he couldn't always be, he saw no reason others shouldn't be.

Omi would understand later. He'd tried, but it was just too much effort to stay awake.

Ken woke in a room he didn't recognize. It was white and too-bright and full of people and shouting, and once again, he found he couldn't move. Panic and despair coursed through him—he had thought ... he had thought ... but why would he think that a dream, even a pain-filled one, would be any more real than another? Fuzzy, indistinct flashes of someone holding him down, someone trying to inject him with a clear fluid in a large syringe floated through his brain. There was a needle in his arm, and he had a strange, hateful, floaty feeling. _Drugs_, he thought hazily, he'd been drugged again. That explained it then. He glanced up. His eyes wouldn't focus, but the room was green and white. He definitely hadn't seen this room before. He tried to force his body to move.

Someone dressed in white leaned over him holding a frightening looking steel implement, said something he couldn't understand, and pulled away the sheet. He was naked beneath it, and his muscles still wouldn't obey, he couldn't move, but he tried, he tried and he yelled in protest even if no one could hear because they were touching him, again, touching him—they were touching where he'd been cut, gloved hands pressing down where he'd been burned, and there was pain, so much pain and ...

"Ken."

Ken moaned softly, eyes sliding shut but not stopping his efforts to get free, because while he couldn't stop trying, he didn't want to hope anymore; he was tired of wishing for an Aya that never truly appeared, he didn't ...

"Ken. You're at Kimura Hospital. Stop fighting. You're safe. Everyone's safe. It's okay." Aya's voice, straightforward and commanding and severe, and no mistaking it.

Ken blinked at that, pausing. He opened his eyes to see Aya, crouched down right in front of him, and suddenly, suddenly he was crying, helplessly, and the tears were sliding down his face, but he couldn't move; he was tied down and exposed and he didn't like it and he couldn't even lift a hand to wipe the unaccustomed wetness away ...but there was Aya, Aya ... and behind him, he could see Yohji, and Omi, all standing there, looking worried and tired and ...

Aya was saying something, wiping the tears off his face for him. Aya's touch was gentler than Ken had ever remembered it being. Ken tried moving his hand again, and found this time he could; he reached that hand toward the man standing beside his bed, finding soft cloth and he clutched it in a death grip, pulling, trying to anchor himself. Trying to make sure none of them faded away again. Trying to make sure they didn't leave him alone.

But it was too much. Darkness ate away at his vision, and he tumbled helplessly into it.

* * *

"No, lie still. You're safe. Remember. You're in the hospital, Ken."

Ken jerked away again as the doctor's gloved hand touched his skin, eyes still closed and seeming unconscious, making a small sound of distress before he turned his head and blinked up at Aya.

"Aya?" A whisper of sound.

"Be still, Ken. I'm here." Aya leaned back against the wall, trying to look out of the way and inconspicuous, and hoping that no one would ask him to leave. He was trying to keep his voice low and soothing, but it kept coming out rough and angry and broken, and he just prayed that no one noticed the hitch. The sharp-eyed doctor in question looked up and nodded encouragingly at him over Ken's head, busy hands quiet for a moment, and Aya relaxed imperceptibly. He ought to be used to it, but he felt young and desperate and overwhelmed, as he always did, in this place where they all looked at him as a boy, beardless face pale and stricken, helpless and clumsy and out of place. Since he'd arrived, he'd been told constantly to move out of the way, to step aside; other voices asked who had let the kid in and what he was doing there. Aya was grateful that this doctor, at least, thought he was doing something right.

After the initial bustle, the hospital staff had kept them waiting in this empty curtained off "room" for hours, only the drip of the IV to keep them company. Apparently, Ken didn't have any truly serious injuries, by medical standards—no internal injuries, and nothing that required immediate surgery, or so they said. And there had been some kind of traffic accident shortly after Ken's arrival. So despite the suspected sepsis and dehydration and possible pneumonia, they had simply hooked Ken up to a number of tubes and ominous looking monitors that beeped and blinked and whirred, drawn a frighteningly large amount of blood at various intervals, covered him with a single thin sheet, and forced them to wait. Mercifully, Ken had been in and out of painful consciousness for most of that time, and Yohji, surprisingly understanding and comforting, had been there to glare at or sit with or leave them alone as needed. From time to time, a nurse or orderly dropped by, and fiddled with something, or drew another vial of blood, and left. At one point, a nurse had come and tried to threaten Aya into leaving for a period of time. Aya had not, and eventually the man bent to Aya's obstinacy and made use of him to turn and position Ken while he rubbed the shivering Ken down with water and alcohol, cleaning off a good portion of the blood and filth as best as he could. They took Ken away a few times, once for several hours, telling Aya it was to operate and set the bone, after which Ken had returned, pale as a ghost, unconscious, and with a soft cast covering a good part of his left leg. The hospital had also asked each of them to give blood, although if it had been needed, they all knew that only Omi's would have been of any real use at all to Ken. Somewhere, there had been an explanation from some kindly but harried-looking nurse that the doctors were concerned that Ken may have been drugged—the story Omi had apparently given involved a bar and a bad crowd--and so the medical staff wanted to limit what they gave him—leaving Ken in what Aya saw as an untenable amount of pain. But Aya couldn't correct her, as Yohji carefully explained to him--when he felt the impulse to hurt and maim and kill them all because hadn't Ken suffered enough and how _dared_ they not give him anything he needed--because Ken may well have been drugged or poisoned, it was hard to say. And because Aya needed, needed to trust that these people knew what they were doing.

Once again, Aya had no other choice.

So Aya forced himself to stay with Ken, and each tortured breath Ken drew was both a delight and a dagger in his heart. Omi had drawn Aya aside at one point--over Aya's objections and reluctance to leave Ken even for a mere second--and forced him to listen while he carefully explained that he'd signed Ken in under an assumed last name, repeated the details of the story he'd concocted, and made Aya repeat back Ken's assumed name and birthdate, before sharply commanding a startled Aya, as Bombay, to say as little as possible to anyone—better yet, to not speak at all--unless absolutely necessary for Ken's treatment. But then Yohji and Omi had left, apparently needing to go off and deal with mission reports and shop openings and other mundane things before morning, before the doctor returned. Left alone in this dimly lit place with Ken, the sun through the window barely visible on the horizon, Aya was slowly and visibly losing his hold on control.

"Aya?" Ken's voice was a shaky rasp, his hand flailing, the rest of him still trying and failing to curl into himself; needle in a wasted arm pulling the wrong way, setting off alarms. Aya moved forward and pushed firmly at a too-thin shoulder, ignoring the flinch, forcing Ken's body to lie flat, before kneeling by the bed and taking one of Ken's hands in his. He dropped a light hand onto Ken's dirty, matted hair, heart clenching when Ken shuddered reflexively away even from that small touch.

They'd tried, but he had threatened violence convincingly enough that they hadn't dared to tie Ken down again. Aya had been terrified, was still terrified, that they'd just kick him out instead, and do what they wanted to Ken anyway. But they let him stay.

"It's ok, Ken. You're still at the hospital. Just relax." Aya wanted more than anything else in the world was to gather the other man close and take him somewhere else. Anywhere else. But he ignored the voice screaming in his head to take Ken and run somewhere safe, kept his voice even, held Ken's hand and left another on Ken's shoulder, a weight to remind Ken to hold still. To let the doctor do whatever painful thing she was doing to him.

"I could give him another sedative, perhaps. He's had a lot already, though, given we still don't have those tox screens, and since I'm not sure what is already in his system, it might ... "

"N--no ..." Ken jerked sharply, and Aya's hand on his shoulder tightened. The doctor's words had been professional and considering, as if Ken was just another patient, just another body.

Ken would hate to have any female see him like this, Aya thought. He'd be so embarrassed.

"Shhhh." Aya placed his hand flat over the sweat-damp forehead, and nodded sharply at the doctor to just _finish_, already. Ken hated drugs. Ken hated hospitals. Ken had been through the gods only knew what horror. Ken was bloodied and burned and _crying_ for the gods' sake, slow tears that leaked from the sides of his eyes, running over broken skin and into matted hair. Even drugged to the gills as he was, unless they knocked him out completely, Ken wasn't going to become calm. Ken was freaking out—with more than just cause--and was liable only to get worse. This idiot doctor just needed to fucking finish, already—and she had damn well better do a fucking decent job--so he could get his boyfriend out of here and somewhere that smelled less like antiseptic and pain.

The doctor just shrugged and bent back down to her work. Aya lifted his hand from Ken's shoulder to swipe a shirtsleeve across his own forehead, beaded with sweat, and Ken's hand tightened instantly on his other.

"Don't leave me!"

"I'm not going anywhere. Rest." Aya wiped his hand quickly on his pants and moved to replace it. The doctor was pulling the sheet aside, having finished with the gashes on Ken's chest, and moving down to a particularly nasty burn at the base of his left hip.

But Ken was growing increasingly agitated, eyes wild and unfocussed. "No ... no more, please, please, they're ... they're c-coming ... I c-can't ... they're ... " Ken screamed soundlessly, a horrible grating sound as the doctor's hand moved, nearly succeeding in throwing himself off the bed and restrained only by the quick reflexes of Aya and a doctor possibly trained to deal with drug addicts or freaking out assassins, or both.

Ken was shaking and white when they'd had him pinned back to the exam bed, injected with even more sedatives, and despite the drugs whispering frantically in an eerie monotone. "My name is Siberian ... my name is Siberian ... Aya, I didn't tell them anything, I promise, please come Aya, please, don't be dead, _Aya_ ... my name is ..."

It seemed to take endless hours, as the doctor stitched and wrapped and cut and cleaned. Ken, eyes glazed and uncomprehending, periodically tried to curl up on his side as Aya sat by the narrow bed and stroked the filthy dark hair, other hand either holding Ken's or firmly on Ken's shoulder anchoring him to the bed, all the while reminding Ken in low tones, over and over, that Ken was safe and he was there and Ken needed to lie still so the doctor could help him. Aya could see that Ken, when he was lucid, was trying his best to do what Aya asked, despite the uncontrollable shivering.

"Ok, Ken, almost done now, you've done really well, really well, Ken, I'm going to take you home soon ..."

Ken had been gazing blankly at the desperately gibbering Aya, his eyes dull with pain and despair, but at Aya's words his focus sharpened slightly and his hand clutched Aya's more tightly.

"Promise?" Another whisper of sound, scratchy and almost unintelligible.

Aya swallowed, not even quite sure what Ken was asking, but he was past caring. "I promise."

One last bleeding tear, in a particularly bad place and Aya wouldn't, he _wouldn't_ think about what that meant, Ken twisting away, apologizing and apologizing but unable to hold still enough for the doctor to finish until Aya, blinded by tears, held him still, and it was over.

The doctor sat back. Ken was still trembling, whiter than the sheet covering him, his hair and eyes dark against it all.

The doctor cleared her throat, and looked up at Aya. "I need you to leave. I need to talk to ..." she checked the chart, "Kato-san?"

Ken whimpered softly, grip tightening painfully on Aya's hand.

"Ken," Aya said, because it was important she know, it was ... "His name is Ken."

"I need to talk to Ken-kun, alone," she repeated and then came over in front of Ken and crouched down. "I need to talk to you, just for a moment. Your friend can wait just outside. Okay?"

Ken looked at her dully. Her hair was streaked with grey, and there was kindness in her eyes. He shuddered. Looked at Aya, and then back, and nodded.

Aya let go of the hand he'd been holding, and resisted the urge to argue. Resisted the urge to refuse. He turned and left, and stood in the hallway, not really knowing what to think or feel or do. He just stood.

Aya gave them five minutes, before going back in. Ken's hospital bed had him leaning halfway up, supported by pillows. His features were tense with pain, and he looked almost translucently pale and somehow diminished in a way Aya had never seen. Aya went immediately to him, crouching low beside the bed, taking Ken's free hand. The doctor was still talking, but Aya was past listening to anything she said. Ken's fingers were cold and stiff, and Aya wrapped his hand around them, trying to infuse Ken with his own warmth. It didn't work.

Aya looked up at the doctor, rudely cutting off the meaningless flow. "Are we done here?"

The doctor, face impassive, nodded.

* * *

_I lied. End of Chapter 13 ... Chapter 14, which is actually Twelfth Night, shall follow ... _

_Apologies for any errors, location, canonical, medical or otherwise, as I am neither a doctor, nor do I play one on TV, and I have no access to anyone I could bribe into telling me all about stuff, so I really have no idea about most of the above-- please feel free to tell me all about how wrong I am or how large parts of the above are medically impossible, and not only will I be grateful, future readers of revised versions will also thank you (presupposing as I am, with a great deal of hope, that there would be future readers). _

_Or point out my spelling errors—I went back and read the earlier bits—and cringed, cringed at all the errors (I really hate spell check and never use it, and despite my best proof-reading, I always miss stuff—and so they remain uncorrected, because I can't figure out how to correct without re-uploading everything on this interface, and I'm focused on getting this draft out right now, so will take care of that when it's done—please send me a note if you chance to notice anything that sticks out at you, so I can make sure to catch them all). _

_Anyway, the point is ... please comment/review/critique? Please? Pleasepleaseplease ... The next part involves plot, and the sheer amount of work involved in the plotty portion is making me want to run away or confess somewhere to the error of my ways in attempting any kind of plot at all ..._


	14. Chapter 14: Twelfth Night

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* * *

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_**Twelfth Night**_

* * *

_It's been a while; things have changed. I'd apologize for the delay, except, well, let's just say there were good reasons. But since I get upset with writers that leave unfinished wips, and since much of this is half-written anyway, I'm doing my best to plug along and complete it, for whatever its worth._

_Anyway, a new year is beginning, so let's try this again. _

_Standard disclaimers/warnings apply, as in previous notes. Please refer back to Chapter 1 for the extended version._

_Hmm, this is a sucky author's note, and I wrote this chapter in a rush; please forgive me and leave comments/send feedback/assist me by pointing out errors anyway? _

* * *

Another few minutes, and then Aya and Ken were alone, in the small white room, with the separation curtains drawn closed and the drip of the IV and the thin early morning sunlight drifting in through an open window. The sounds of other patients groaning and hospital staff moving about could be heard in the background. Ken, on the other hand, was extremely quiet, still as water. Very unlike the Ken he knew. Aya was the agitated one, now, barely able to control a desperate need to fidget.

The view of the concrete parking lot outside was drab and gray. It looked deceptively normal. They were lucky they had the window, Aya thought absently.

Aya had remained crouched by Ken's side, not really sure what came next, but not daring to move, and not able to bring himself to break contact. Ken remained quiet, face turned towards Aya. Ken was pale and too thin, and he looked dazed. But his eyes were open, and he wasn't dead. Still as he was, he wasn't dead. Aya reminded himself that it was important to remember that Ken was with him, was here, was alive; that he'd survived and it was over.

Against all odds, against all hope, Ken had survived, and come back to him. It was over.

Suddenly, Aya leaned forward, and buried his head against Ken's side. He stayed there a moment, body shaking minutely, one hand still gripping one of Ken's hard. Then he spoke, voice muffled but not enough to disguise a shake in that normally smooth, controlled baritone. "Ken, you complete idiot. Don't do that again, ever. You hear me? Not ever again. What were you thinking? God, Ken." Aya kept his face hidden for another moment, before he rocked back and looked up. Aya's pale features were grim with anger and his violet gaze burned into Ken's. And then in a moment it was gone and his expression was again controlled blank; forbidding and composed.

Ken didn't answer. But he moved his free hand, shaking with the effort, towards Aya's head. Aya stayed still as marble, not daring to blink, not daring to breathe. He felt unsteady fingers thread through his hair, saw the brunet head turn slightly, and he heard Ken sigh softly, before opening his mouth ... And then Ken's eyes closed, and his hand went limp, falling lightly through Aya's hair.

Watching Ken's tight features soften into sleep, hearing his breathing even out despite a mild hitch, Aya sat still for a moment longer on the floor with Ken's slack hand sliding softly through his hair before catching up the hand and kissing it softly, setting it gently back on the bed, and then doing the same to the other he still held. The sunlight had settled on Ken's limp, dingy hair, and the sounds of Ken's rasping breath were a little too shallow, a little too quick, but steady. In the sharp-smelling, sunlit room with the white noise of the hospital all around them, and despite everything, Aya watched his sleeping Ken, and smiled.

* * *

Omi had arrived at the Koneko in a fluster, dreading the worst, and only marginally relieved when there appeared to be no trace of Manx or anyone else. Yet. The e-mail he'd received from Manx while they'd been at the hospital had been the one he hadn't wanted to receive, and it was why he'd made sure he and Yohji had arrived back from the hospital well before dawn. He hadn't wanted to be caught unawares, even if he was sure that he would be.

He hadn't wanted to play into Persia's hands.

The encrypted e-mail, directly from Persia, had been brief and to the point. _"Siberian's replacement has been chosen. A vetted dossier will follow in due course." _

Omi had no doubt that this "replacement" would be arriving immediately, and there would be little time to prepare. Kritiker didn't want to allow them time to prepare; liked its teams to be off balance and in their control. He also, despite his best efforts, had no idea who Persia had chosen. Given recent events, he assumed it would be some guy who thought he owed more than just his life to Kritiker.

Omi had once been that guy.

In the meantime, Omi knew he needed to exercise some damage control. Already, he'd had to fight with Aya to keep Ken out of the way at the hospital. Apparently, Aya had promised Ken, and Ken really, really wanted to come home. But despite Ken's wishes and Aya's promises, Ken couldn't yet come home. For two very important reasons: Ken seemed way too fragile to be moved at the moment, from what little he gleaned from the hospital records he'd hacked into and then carefully altered; and for now, until Omi had the situation with Kritiker and the replacement sorted out, the hospital was also safer than being at the Koneko. Omi had neither the means nor the ability to provide the level of professional, high-level care Ken required, and given the new Kritiker-imposed complication …

Because what his teammates didn't understand, and what he hadn't had time to properly explain to Aya was that … well, Kritiker didn't exactly know Ken was with them, or even alive.

And if Omi had his way—and he _would_—Kritiker would remain in the dark about that for some time yet. Omi hadn't been able to protect his teammate properly in the past, but he'd be damned if he was going to repeat his mistakes.

He'd given the barest outline to Yohji on the way home, focusing more on what was happening and what he needed Yohji to do than why he needed it done--with an assurance of more detail later. He hadn't been completely forthcoming, but for now, all he needed to do was explain that there would be a new addition, Kritiker didn't know they'd found Ken and convince Yohji—and it hadn't been all that hard, bit of a batting of the eyes and a plea to trust him--to pretend to the new guy that Ken was still dead. He hadn't explained anything at all to Aya, who was usually more amenable to following straight orders, and just told Aya to say nothing to anyone, with the exception only of himself and Yohji (Ken was too out of it and too delirious to be trusted), and stay put—rationalizing to Yohji that everything had been too chaotic and he couldn't be sure who was listening. Aya, not entirely sure of what Omi was up to and, as usual, too emotional about those he loved to be reasonable, had remained unwilling to renege on his promise to Ken and had conceded only when Omi had reluctantly pulled rank.

"Abyssinian, you _will_ keep Siberian here until I say so. Understand?"

"Yes, Bombay. I understand." The voice was coldly professional and pure Abyssinian. But Aya's eyes had burned hotly into Omi's own, with a rage and desire for vengeance that was pure Aya, with maybe only the barest remaining trace of the loving, mild-mannered boy once called Ran.

Omi blinked the image away, shaken. Aya didn't use that particular look on a friend. But it had been an emotional time, and Omi was more than willing to chalk it up to that. Omi hated pulling rank at the best of times, and with Ken lying there looking destroyed, and the frantic, lost look in Aya's eyes … well, it hadn't been the best of times, even if it had been necessary.

So many distasteful things he'd done, all justified as being necessary.

He'd deceived his teammates. He had sent his team on an unauthorized mission. At the end of it, he hadn't explained himself to either Aya or Yohji because he wasn't quite sure _how_. He wasn't sure how much they should yet know, or how they'd react to the deception, and he wasn't prepared to take any unnecessary risks, not just now, not with Weiss so vulnerable.

And neither Yohji nor Aya were stupid—they'd start asking questions soon enough.

And now this summons directly from Persia, which Omi--sleep-deprived, exhausted and worried--most definitely wasn't prepared for. Persia probably knew that. Omi wasn't sure just how much Persia knew.

In any event, Aya's absence from the Koneko at any hour was not unusual, and would raise no suspicion in Manx's mind. Even if, since Aya had gotten together with Ken, he did hang around a bit more, Manx wouldn't know that. Aya still tended to slink in and out at the oddest of hours, and even Ken had never seemed to know where Aya was half the time—which may have been a problem in some other relationship, but Ken being Ken didn't really worry about it as long as Aya turned up safe whenever he was supposed to. Which he did.

Aya was, for all his faults, reliable that way.

* * *

"Aya?"

"Right here, Ken."

"Where are the kids?" Ken's voice was weak and grating, sounding terribly painful to Aya's ears.

"They're fine, Ken. Their families have taken them home." Aya hated lying to Ken, but there wasn't much choice he could see. It quieted Ken anyway, for a moment.

"Aya, I'm cold."

"You're running a fever, Ken."

"Please, it's really cold. I ... there's a quilt on my bed, please could you get it?"

"Not right now, Ken. We have to wait, just a little while. You should … use this time to get some rest."

"Too ... cold. Please Aya. I've always gotten you whatever you wanted when you've been sick! Why can't I just have my quilt? It's just in my room, just next door ... isn't it?" Ken blinked, looking around. "Aya? This isn't your room. Where am I?"

"Hospital, Ken. You're still at Kimura Hospital."

"I don't ... why … I thought you were going to take me home. You promised to take me home. I don't want to be here!"

"I know, I know, I'll take you home soon. Calm down. Soon, I promise. There are reasons. And you are not yet well enough."

"I ... I don't want to stay here, Aya. Please? Could you please take me home? I'll be fine, really. I promise I'll be quiet if you just take me home. Please. It's not cold at home."

Aya sighed, reaching out to once again restrain Ken's wrist as he saw Ken's hand inch towards the detested IV needle. He'd even tried to bargain with Ken about the needle, but all he had was his meaningless promise to take Ken home. When Omi had barked out his ridiculous order, he clearly had no idea how difficult this was. Ken had dozed, some—it seemed he couldn't much help it--but he did so unwillingly, and woke at the slightest noise. He woke at the sound of the door. He woke when Aya so much as twitched. Aya had lost count of how many times Ken had woken up in these few long hours, confused and frightened and begging Aya to just take him home. And those were the better times, when Aya was right beside him, awake and waiting to reassure. When Aya had gone to the bathroom one time and flushed the toilet, he returned to a Ken who'd managed to drag himself halfway across the room, blood on the sheets, and panic in his eyes. Reaching out to touch him caused Ken to lurch even further back and away, his uncertain balance causing him to collapse in a heap. Aya had kept hoping the nurses would decide, soon, that Ken could have some drugs to make him sleep, because he sure wasn't doing it on his own, no matter that he appeared entirely exhausted. Or at least that they would allow Ken something warmer than the thin sheet that was Ken's only covering. But when they had finally offered him a sopoforic, Ken refused. At one point, sleep-deprived and frustrated, Aya had lost patience and had turned to Ken, snapping that Ken had better damn well take the drugs or he was leaving.

The reaction from Ken had been immediate and bewildering to Aya. "No! I'm sorry. I'll sleep … I promise. I'll be good. I'll be quiet. I'm sorry. Please, Aya. Please, don't leave, and don't make me take them. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Ken had looked frightened and upset, clutching one of Aya's shirtsleeves in a death-grip, and withdrawing in on himself. His eyes had begged for a mercy he didn't expect to receive. Aya was instantly contrite, silently cursing himself for an insensitive idiot. "Ken … it's ok, I'm sorry." He tried to make his voice gentle, as gently as if he were speaking to his _imouto_. "I didn't mean it. You know I wouldn't force you, and of course I'm not going anywhere. I just think it would be better if you got some sleep."

"Ok." But the look in Ken's eyes had been haunted and wary until he'd closed them, and although he'd stayed silent a long while after, Aya knew he didn't sleep, and the grip on Aya's sleeve didn't slacken. It had been a long time until Aya managed to reassure Ken that the threat had been completely meaningless, and although even now the wariness lurked, Aya infinitely preferred the currently demanding, petulant Ken to the glimpse of that defeated, terrified shell.

Funny, that he could have such a preference. There was nothing he actually preferred about any of this. Ken was alive and whole, he reminded himself. That was already more than he'd thought possible. He needed to remember how grateful he was that Ken was alive. "You need to concentrate on recovery. Do not concern yourself with anything else. Sleep, Ken."

"But you promised. You promised!"

"I know, Ken. I will. Soon." He made his voice stern and final, letting it sink in. "For now, is there anything I can get you? Are you comfortable?" Damn stupid questions, thought Aya, and ones he wouldn't have normally asked an ill or injured Ken—but these weren't normal circumstances.

"I'm fine." Ken's eyes blinked up at Aya, exhausted but wide with pain and fear.

_No, you're not_, thought Aya, but the stupidity of his questions deserved an idiotic answer. What Ken wanted was just to go home, and even that small thing was something that Aya couldn't do for him. But at least Ken remained quiet, although he didn't sleep. And even though Aya could barely stand that terrible look, so out of place in those familiar brown eyes, he couldn't help but be grateful for the quiet, for the peace of not having to answer all those questions that he couldn't answer, questions that just made his heart ache. And after a time, Ken drifted helplessly off into another restless doze; leaving Aya.

Still sitting by a hospital bed; still waiting.

* * *

Ken had once half-joked, back in the early days shortly after Aya had joined Weiss, and having just been badly rejected by some girl he'd asked out, that Persia had messed up when they'd hired him for Weiss, because he just wasn't good looking enough. Aya hadn't said anything, letting his silence speak for him; but Omi had immediately countered to bolster his friend's ego, while Yohji had simply assured Ken that not everyone could be as good-looking as he himself was.

But Ken hadn't been altogether wrong, because aside from the beauty that came with youth and fitness, the guys of Weiss were all … extremely attractive. While everyone couldn't have his arresting good looks, if he did say so himself--Aya _was_ terribly exotic, Omi damned cute, while Ken … Ken was admittedly a little insecure about his appearance, but he definitely had that athletic grace and build, and he cleaned up very well, especially when Yohji deigned to assist him. Which Yohji had, graciously, whenever necessary. He could be benevolent and generous too, unlike what that prick Aya seemed to think.

Aya. He'd better be damned good to Ken. The way he'd found him … the small room, the stench, the look in Ken's eyes … well, apparently Yohji had a shiny fresh new nightmare to add to his repertoire. Joy.

And now that Ken was back, Yohji swore he'd take Ken shopping. For his birthday, maybe—his birthday was coming up, wasn't it? And that boy definitely needed something to wear other than those t-shirts and soccer jerseys he seemed to live in half the time. Honestly, you'd think he'd take some heed of the good example Yohji took such effort to set for him every day …

And then he remembered Ken's state, and sobered, and tried to remember his point. He looked up. Right. The point was that Ken's theory seemed to actually have some merit. Because the replacement that Manx had brought them, standing right there in their shop, in the pale winter morning sunlight at a little past eight in the morning, was … was beauty and physical perfection and all his dreams come true, all tied up in one gorgeous package.

One gorgeous definitely _female_ package.

Kritiker _had_ to be kidding.

"Good morning, boys," said Manx, her cat that ate the canary smile firmly in place. "This is Tiffany, your newest addition. Tiffany, Balinese, Bombay. Boys, where ever _is _your Abysininan?"

"Out," muttered Yohji absently. There was no way in hell Manx or Persia or all of the rest of Kritiker could actually think, for one fraction of one second, that Weiss could function as well with a woman on their team. That Weiss would even _allow_ a woman on their team—that this chick could be a suitable replacement for Siberian. For their strong berserker Ken. Sure, Yohji had every respect for women—and then some. Asuka had been smart and capable and the best goddamned P.I. he'd ever known. But replacing the powerful fighting muscle of Siberian with this pretty, delicate girl … the very idea was entirely, completely, preposterous.

Yohji slanted a glance at Omi. Omi looked cute and interested and welcoming, as if he'd like to bake the new girl some "Welcome Assassin!" cookies, offer her tea, direct her to the best shops for nearby shopping and could he take her bags up to her room?

Dear God, her room. Where on earth would she even _sleep_?

But man, she was beautiful. Hair a fall of ebony silk, eyes so deep and dark a man could drown in them. She was tall—not, certainly, as tall as either he or Aya—but still tall for a woman, slender and curvy and with the kind of grace he'd only ever seen in … well, Aya, actually, who had that contained strength that came with swordsmanship. He'd bet dollars to donuts that this chick also used a blade of some kind.

And she was dead tired, he now saw, looking closer—barely able to hold herself upright, doing so only through an effort of sheer will. Despite the regal bearing, and the hint of a sneer on her lips, she looked like she'd been dragged through three different hells and hadn't quite yet realized she'd escaped. Even though she was trying to hide it.

Well, whatever. They all knew about hell. If that was the only qualification, she'd be into Weiss like … well, whatever. The point was, she couldn't be Weiss. End of discussion. He bet Omi would be saying something, in that polite way of his, any moment now …

Omi was smiling and actually _was_ offering to take the girl's bag. Manx was turning to leave. Yohji gaped.

Omi narrowed his eyes at him, and kicked him in the shin sharply as he passed by for good measure.

Right. A tour. He was supposed to take the new guy for a tour. Distract him.

Well, at least this wouldn't be as unpleasant as he'd thought after all.

Yohji turned to the still silent girl and smiled: his most charming, unthreatening smile. Her eyes narrowed slightly. He respectfully inclined his head.

"Welcome to our home, and to Weiss. My name is Kudoh Yohji. Will you allow me the liberty of showing you around?"

She snarled at him.

He gave up and leered shamelessly at her.

It wasn't as good as Ken knocking Aya out, but as a welcome, it was certainly something.

* * *

"Omi. Dear boy, to what do I owe this visit?"

"Tiffany has arrived. You summoned me to obtain her dossier. I'm very busy with school, you know. You could have e-mailed it."

"Ah. Of course, and here it is. I wanted to congratulate you. You discovered the link, didn't you?" That courteous, affable tone never wavered in the least.

Omi froze; forced himself to relax. "Did you think I wouldn't?"

"When you arranged that mission—and that was very cleverly done of you, I might add, even though I will need to discipline you for it, one of these days--I had thought you might. I wondered what you'd hoped to accomplish, but you've always been thorough. So you arranged proof that Kobayashi and Kritiker were in alliance. Confirmation with low risk is always wise, although I'm still not entirely certain what you'd hoped to gain. You might be so kind as to save me the trouble and just tell me. You have good instincts, and never cease to fulfill my every expectation. I am very proud of you, you know."

"You bastard! You …"

"Ah, tsk tsk, my young friend. Language. If the others could only hear you ..."

"You knew. You …

"I didn't want to stop you. You needed to see for yourself that your Siberian was dead. You were too late, sadly."

"You set us up. Kobayashi was your own man—the ring was one of Kritiker's holdings. I found the records. You may as well have killed Ken-kun yourself. How could you do that?"

"Ah, my dear Omi, you are so young. The mission was legitimate—at the time, Kobayashi had betrayed Kritiker, and knowing what it did about him, Kritiker could scarcely let him out loose, now could it? He soon changed his tune and returned to our jurisdiction, but by then it was too late and some damage had been done. It is a pity about Siberian. He was a good operative. And no, I didn't know, certainly not what would happen. Of course I knew that Kobayashi's security was top notch—it was Kritiker technology, after all—but it is not my fault that neither you nor the former Siberian were not more careful, certainly not. And of course after you failed, Kritiker could scarcely interefere."

"I'll ..."

"Sweet, sweet Omi-kun, what will you do? You can't tell them, now, can you? How would it help them? And you ... you are a Takatori. You found the link. You are my heir apparent. They'll think _you_ set them up."

"I didn't! I ..."

"Ah, but how will they know that? You really think they trust you? Do you? With your smiling face and hugs and tears? All a mask, darling boy. All a mask, just as the face of Persia they see for their mission reports is all a mask. They'll wonder if you knew. They'll wonder if you set them up. I won't deny it. And knowing your blood, they ... _they won't know whether or not to believe you_."

"I hate you."

"Ah, but you will one day become me, don't you see? All this emotion, it really is pointless, my boy."

"You're no better than Esset."

"Oh, Esset are bumbling idiots. It is how we have defeated them for so long, and how we will continue to do so. But I am curious, though … the other lads, the rest of your Weiss, they won't always thank you. They won't even remain loyal to you—maybe for now, but they are certainly not as loyal to you as you are to them, or even as loyal as they might be to each other. You know this, so, I wonder: why do you bother?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"My dear lad, I wonder sometimes, if you do."

The reality was, Omi wasn't sure he did either. This interview was draining, like walking in quicksand and playing a part with lines he'd never been given. And Persia knew his weaknesses, knew how much the trust and friendship of the other members of Weiss meant to Omi. He didn't know the extent, maybe--how Omi considered Weiss the family he'd never had, and how frightened he was of losing that. Persia didn't know how close to home his words struck, or how much of Omi's display of anger was not just grief about Ken but fear that Persia was right, fear of losing the only brothers, the only family he had left. And Omi knew he was close to exactly that. Omi knew that perhaps, no matter what he did at this point, there might be no way he could prevent that now.

But Persia didn't know Ken was alive. _Kritiker didn't know. _ It was something to cling to. Omi clenched his fist, and his next words were ground out.

"I'll get them out. I promise you, whatever it takes. One day, I'll get them out."

"Perhaps. Perhaps you will, one way or another. But I promise you this, and you know it to be true: You are Kritiker's. You are Kritiker's, my heir apparent, and you will never leave."

* * *

_I told you I could out-Sue you, too …_

_End of Chapter 14. Thanks, as always, for reading …_

* * *


	15. Chapter 15: Coming Home

_A/N: After another lengthy delay, here's the next part. Thanks to anyone still reading, and in particular to Gillie, for your loyalty and patience. It has been much appreciated. _

_All disclaimers and warnings continue to apply; please refer to notes before the Prologue._

* * *

Chapter 15: Coming Home

* * *

Omi spent the rest of the day planning, while pretending to be cute and innocuous. It wasn't hard; he'd always pretended and while it might have been a slight strain now—he'd unconsciously let the mask slip a little over the last couple of years, as he'd begun to trust the other three—it wasn't that much of a stretch. The persona he'd built fit over him as easily as a second skin, and sometimes he wasn't sure where Omi began and the hidden Mamorou ended.

Particularly as he'd only just discovered that Omi hid Mamouru anyway, and he was still not quite sure who Mamouru had been, and hadn't quite figured out who he was now. Or who he wanted him to be.

Wasn't even sure, often, that he had a choice.

Still … it was the deliveries, he'd decided. Ken and Aya being at the hospital—convenient as it was—left them exposed. It was only a matter of time before the police came round to investigate, because Ken's condition was way too suspect. Omi had thought, initially, that maybe it was better to keep them there—he hadn't actually expected even to find Ken alive, and finding him and then seeing him in his state had shot his thinking all to hell—but now, with a bit of time and coffee, he could see that it wouldn't do at all. He needed to get Ken and Aya back here and alter both the hospital and police records sufficiently to cover their tracks—which was actually safer than a complete wipe—no nasty suspicious record holes. They were exposed either way, but at least if they were physically here, he had something more of control. Or at least he _felt_ like he did, which was, in the end, all that really mattered, he supposed.

So. They'd opened the shop, Yohji had been a trooper and put up with the new girl by flirting and showing her around all at the same time, and the new girl … well, she looked like a stiff breeze could knock her over, and right now, was a complication Omi simply didn't need. Omi hadn't even managed to flip through the dossier he'd picked up that afternoon, and now it was almost time to close. He just prayed she was stupid, or was at least as dazed as she looked, because he really needed a break.

He'd send her out on deliveries, he'd decided. Constantly. It was what Ken did most of the time, anyway, so it was what they needed done, and it would keep her out of the way. As for tonight … there was actually a convenient one—a love token, to be delivered clear across town, and it would take at least a couple of hours, if he sent her out right before they closed, when there was traffic. And if he wrote down the directions slightly wrong … it would be perfect.

He picked up the phone to call Aya, preparing to be bitched at. At least dealing with a cranky Aya would feel normal.

Normal, in Omi's opinion, was highly underrated.

* * *

She was so tired.

The world seemed blurred, seemed unnatural—too bright, too shiny, too loud and raw and grating. The light was glaring and sharp; the voices were shrieking and rough and hard to understand. She was having difficulty concentrating.

But even so, she knew they were trying to get her out of the way.

They looked tired themselves, so maybe she could excuse them from this level of clumsiness, although it was still quite unimpressive. This was the crack assassin team that Kritiker had promised her would allow her to avenge Ashitaka and Yumi? She certainly hoped that this was not the best they had to offer, this smiling blond child and the bumbling blond boy. Weiss was supposed to be the best Kritiker had to offer; a team so lethal they were almost legend. This had to be some kind of joke.

Plus, it would help if this one didn't keep trying to look down her shirt. The sunglasses and that leer, she wasn't quite sure if it was as painted on as the lazy grin and the smarmy charm, but if he didn't start looking up at her eyes on occasion she was going to hurt him. Badly.

Then he explained that they ran a flower shop, and as part of Weiss, she'd be expected to work in it.

In a flower shop.

He had to be kidding.

But he wasn't. He showed her around the shop, explained the schedule, and gave her a tour of their living quarters—showing her the common areas, the bathrooms and kitchen, identifying each of their rooms, including the one he called Ken's, an odd look breaking the snakeoil salesman-smooth façade. They hadn't yet cleaned out his things, he said, and Ken was not, he'd smiled awkwardly… the tidiest kind of guy. The assassin she was replacing, she assumed. Siberian.

She listened quietly as he explained glibly that they didn't have a room ready for her, and showed her a lumpy, crumb-covered, suspiciously stained couch in the basement—the mission room, he called it. But it was just a standard basement—somewhat filthy, without a door, without any privacy whatsoever. Kudoh apologized prettily—she figured, from the way he did it, that he'd had a lot of practice—but it didn't change anything. She wanted to cry. Would have, had she been the type. She could not imagine—could not abide that she wouldn't be able to spend the night in private, with a door and some space between herself and the rest of the world.

But she'd never been particularly patient. Never been particularly tactful. And she'd buried her husband and child not even a week ago. Her belongings, all her family's things, their home, their pictures and photos and even the lock of Yumi's hair she'd … it was all gone. So she pushed away her terror at sleeping in the open room, pushed away the overwhelming thoughts of her past. Easier to be angry. Easier to turn on this smiling blond idiot. So when she demanded, harshly, why the fuck they hadn't cleaned out the dead guy's—Ken's, she was reminded sharply—Ken, whatever--the dead guy's room out by now—after all, they _were _assassins, shouldn't they have been in the habit of replacing their teammates from time to time? Besides, if he'd gone and gotten himself killed, he couldn't have been that useful any … Before she could blink, he had her up against the far wall, and the look in those jade green eyes had been cold and angry and dead. The look of a killer.

The look in his eyes had scared her. And convinced her. And shut her up before she goaded this guy into hurting or killing her—as much as that sounded almost like a gift now. She didn't argue when he repeated, slowly, that she would sleep in the basement, and that she would not touch Ken's room until one of them deemed it ready.

Then he seemed to collect himself, letting go of her, gently brushing out the creases from her shirt before she collected herself to bat his hands away, apologizing, the flirtatious lady-killer smile back in place. He was murmuring gently about forgetting how to treat a lady, and how the accommodations _were_ most unfortunate, but could he offer her a meal to make it up to her?

The offer was made by rote and easy to refuse. He didn't know what to make of her, and he wasn't as in control as he wanted her to believe. She'd been shaken, yet again, and almost, almost she wanted to call Manx, tell her she'd changed her mind.

As if Kritiker allowed its agents to change their minds. Ash and Yumi were proof of that. And so, she'd chosen to go deeper. Ash would have been appalled. She wasn't even sure, anymore, really, what she was doing, although it had all seemed to make sense at the time …

She shook herself. Exhaustion was confusing her. Focus. Focus on the present—the present in which this guy expected her to sleep on the couch because he wanted to carefully preserve the junk of a teenaged teammate who certainly should have expected to die, and who Kudoh likely knew less well than the girl in the coffee shop he'd taken her to earlier—at least, judging by the ten minutes of knowing winks and flirtatious touches she'd been obliged to watch while he'd assured her it was all a necessary part of her orientation.

She'd have to sleep with a knife under her pillow. She couldn't forget—she was sleeping in a house full of killers, and for all they seemed friendly, they were deadly and remorseless, and she'd be wise not to forget it.

An unbidden image of Ash smiling as he lay on their bed, in their own world, their quiet, safe room, holding Yumi on his chest, explaining his plans for their future and grinning at her to get her ass over …

_Didn't matter,_ she told herself fiercely. _Didn't matter, didn't matter, didn't matter._ This was now, and she'd have to deal. Have to. Oh, God, she …

She swallowed and blinked and turned her thoughts away. She hated it here already, even though she knew she had to lose the attitude. It wouldn't get her far. For better or worse, this was her new team, this was her new home, and this was what she had to deal with. It was what she'd chosen. She'd better start to learn how.

She still wasn't so sure, however, why it was the two of them were so bent on keeping her carefully out of the way, or where the hell the third—Abyssinian, she'd been told—was. Well, they probably didn't trust her. She certainly didn't trust them, even if come their first mission, she knew she was going to have to. She was the newcomer here, and she'd have to learn, to deal.

It was several hours later, after he'd shown her how to wrap a single stem, a bouquet, how to run the register, which type of ribbon went with which colour flower, where the inventory list and the cashbox were kept, when he gave her a list, a scooter, and asked her if she could felt up to taking on the afternoon's deliveries. She accepted with alacrity. She didn't care if they were trying to get her out of the way—she needed to be away from this place full of screaming young girls, most of whom glared at her or who begged for a hint of what kind of flower her new co-workers liked, as if she was expected to know--for at least a few hours. She certainly hoped the missions were less headache-inducing than working at the god-forsaken shop.

Outside, it was raining, and the world was dark and grey. She stuck the brightly coloured bouquet of pink and red into a box, and tied it with a ribbon, tucking the small card inside. _For Mariko, _it said, in her own neat kanji. _Happy 1st Anniversary._

* * *

Ken, lying slumped against the rear passenger-side window, couldn't stop smiling.

He was still in a lot of pain, and it made it hard to do much of anything, but the drugs helped, and ...

He was going home.

The doctor had protested, had wanted to keep him under observation or whatever it was that doctors wanted, and had told him he wasn't thinking clearly, had told him he was ill and dehydrated and … he had been through an … _ordeal_, was the word she'd used.

The older nurse had told him kindly and pityingly that he was surely not thinking straight, and he shouldn't worry his head about anything and he should _just lie there and let us take care of you_, and he'd started screaming and screaming and didn't stop until Aya came and he could feel Aya's hands squeezing his own hard enough that it penetrated all the other pain and he was back at the hospital again.

The initially compassionate-sounding, but increasingly frustrated police officer had protested and persuaded and then threatened, after a horrible interview in the x-ray lab in which she'd gotten nowhere with convincing him to say anything about how he'd ended up … as he did, except that he'd been mugged and no, he hadn't seen who did it, and no, aside from his friends, he had no family he wanted contacted, and yes, he understood he'd been hurt, and no, he couldn't explain those bruises or how … and no, he didn't want to talk about it, and yes, he did understand it was serious, and yes, he knew others could be hurt just like him, and … please, please his head hurt, he needed to sleep, and then he wouldn't say anything more.

There had been whispers around him, conversations in low voices. He'd heard snatches of some of the conversation beside his bed. He had been trying to listen, but it had been hard to focus, and he kept drifting out—voices, irritated, angry, anxious, pleading, and Aya's voice, once or twice, rumbling in-between … _young man, I don't think you understand … would be irresponsible to remove your brother from our care … needs more care than you can provide … do you understand how risky… dehydration … infection … risk of sepsis …no records of a missing kid … possible concussion … pneumonia … cannot condone … has clearly been criminally assaulted …can keep him here involuntarily if … you're just a kid, how can you possibly care for him at the level …don't you have parents who can … can work out a payment plan for the bills, if that's what …_ and one older male voice finally snapping, loud enough to jolt Ken awake again, "Do what you want. I guess it's not your funeral in the end, is it?"

And then there had been a moment, a frightening moment, when Aya had come close by him, took his hand and explained softly, "They'll be a lot better able to take care of you here, Ken; I won't be able, maybe, to do everything at home ... it would probably be better if ..."

And for a few long minutes, Ken had thought that was it. Aya had promised, but people promised a lot of things. Ken knew that. It wasn't that they didn't mean what they said at the time, it was just that they didn't always mean what they said later.

"Please," was all Ken had been able to say, nameless fear choking him. "Please, Aya, I won't be any trouble, _please _..." He'd _promised_, was all he could think, even as he felt a wave of guilt crash over the despair, because how could he even ask Aya to take care of him _now_, when he was … but he couldn't stay here, he _couldn't, _and Aya had promised; Aya had promised and he couldn't ...

Ken's struggle for breath and words was cut off as Aya brushed hair off his face and squeezed his hand hard, smiling at him gently, reassuringly, and now Ken could see the fear deep in Aya's eyes.

"Ok, Ken, it's ok. I'll take care of it. Just don't look like that. Please don't look like that. Just relax, and we'll be home soon."

Since he'd met him, Aya had never broken a promise, Ken had realized, dizzy with sudden relief. Not once.

_Not yet, _added a little voice, and Ken wasn't sure whose voice it was, because so many people had been speaking with him lately, he wasn't sure anymore who was real.

And then Aya had fought with the doctors. Had fought with them, because he knew Ken hated hospitals, and knew Ken didn't want to stay. Had fought with them, because he'd promised Ken he'd take him home. And then ... then he did.

But Aya was also still speaking, he realized, and so Ken tried to pull his thoughts together; tried to focus. "… are you listening, Hidaka? I need you to be clear." Aya had a hard look in his eyes, and that rambling tone he got just before sex or missions or after a long shift, that easily signaled he was laying out the Law According to Aya. It was funny, Ken thought, as Aya's voice faded out again, that for a guy that didn't say much, when he was in the mood, he could lecture on like there was no tomorrow. And he even expected you to listen.

" … and when we get home, and until you are well--until _I_ decide you are well--you will take your medication and do what we tell you, and Omi will make sure a doctor comes 'round to check you out …" Ken wasn't sure, but he bet anything Aya threatened Omi with something to make that happen. He wasn't so sure he was happy about it, either. Doctors were all alarmists, and he'd be fine once he got home. All he needed was to get home. Aya would see that—everything would be fine at home.

Unfortunately, Aya hadn't stopped speaking. "I don't care if you don't like pills, or you don't want to sleep, or whatever your problem usually is. You will tell us immediately if you are in pain, and you will listen to every instruction I or any of the others give as it pertains to your health. You will call us when you need anything and everything—you will _not_ try to manage on your own when there is no need for you to do so, and some danger. You will rest when you are supposed to; you will eat when we ask. I will not compromise your health due to stubborn nature or your inclination to idiocy. Do you understand?"

Not exactly a tender loving welcome, but this was Aya. This was _his_ Aya: this was his Ran. And it warmed Ken that Aya was treating him ... well, not like china, not like he was broken, but like he would have treated the old Ken. And that small bit of normalcy was more soothing than anything Aya could have done—aside from taking him home, which he had said he would also arrange, even if he'd only said that after a call from Omi that had made him look like he'd eaten a whole lime including the rind. So Ken just grinned back at Aya, unrepentantly—like he wanted to do, like the old Ken would have done. Ken had always, always pushed himself—since childhood, since he'd been forced to stand dry-eyed at his parents' funeral, since he'd been forced to coach and not play, since he'd been forced to kill. Aya couldn't change him, but he had to give Aya points for trying. And anyway, he'd be fine in a couple of days. He was going _home._

Aya was glaring now, because Ken was still smiling like a fool, and at that, Ken surprised them both by laughing out load. Laughing, even though it hurt, because he could see the affection underneath the death-glare, because Aya was there, because he could, and in the end, Aya couldn't help the small smile lifting the corner of his mouth, forcing him to turn away before that tiny smile became any worse, sighing in blatant and only mostly feigned irritation at his incorrigible boyfriend.

So they were going home, and it was ok. He was safe. It was really ok. He told himself this, repeated it over and over until he was sure he believed it, until it formed a mantra in his head, and forced himself to stay awake, to make sure it happened, to make sure he was watching as Aya read and carefully completed and signed all the paperwork, indicating the right places for Ken to sign as well; as Aya wheeled Ken to the entrance in a damned wheelchair he was simply told he had no choice about; as he was shifted to the car with Aya's help and his own feeble, fading strength. Must have been the drugs, because he was so tired; he couldn't live with himself if he really had become this weak.

Tried to stay awake, because even as he willed himself to believe it, and despite the very real feeling of the leather seat and the burning pinch of the IV he hadn't quite convinced Aya to lose and the refreshing touch of fresh air on his face, he didn't quite trust that he wouldn't wake up on the cot below that small, high window the moment he closed his eyes.

But despite his best efforts, Ken finally fell asleep to the low growl and smooth motion of the Porsche's engine, missing entirely the look of worry and fear, but all overshadowed by love, that Aya glanced over at him as he drove them both home.

_

* * *

_

_End of Chapter 15. Thanks again for reading. Feedback is, as always, gratefully received._


	16. Chapter 16: A Longer Road

_A/N: Yes, it's been ages again, but I will try to update less than 6 months apart this year. Really. _

_I am very grateful to all of you who are still reading, and to those who have taken the time to drop me notes to let me know you are. I do welcome any comments, positive or negative, and for those of you who have already left comments, I truly appreciate it. _

* * *

Chapter 16: A Longer Road

* * *

Sometimes, Yohji couldn't help but think of the younger two Weiss as, well, kids. He knew Aya did too, because once, they'd both done it--asked about the kids, alone in the shop, while Ken was off playing ball and Omi had run off to cram school. After that, Yohji had often talked about the kids, when the other two weren't around, until he'd realized that Aya had stopped thinking of Ken as a kid, even if he still considered Omi one. 

And only a little bit because either of those kids would gut them if they'd ever heard.

But ... it was very true. Ken and Omi had been kids, anyway, when Yohji had first joined—juggling classes and midnight slaughters while Yohji wondered why he'd done to get thrown into a team which required a babysitter. Yohji might only have been a few years older, but those were years that mattered—and he'd grown up fast anyway, maybe too fast, after his father had left and before his mother--who had worked in Roppongi all her life and had tried to do the best she could by her only son, knowing that it wasn't much--had died. Asuka had once said, way back when he was, technically, still a kid, that there was something too depraved, too knowing, too dark in Yohji for it to be anything but adult. It was a side entirely lacking in the younger two--for all of his experience and killing and intellect, even now Omi was still a kid, very much so, in many of the ways that mattered. And Ken – well, one look at Ken and you just knew he'd never really grow up. Even Omi—who played hard at being a kid, or at least seeming like one--seemed so much older than Ken much of the time.

Somehow, it made what had happened almost worse, if such a thing were possible.

The voice on the line was still lecturing. "Yes, a very nasty flu, Nakato-san, yes, with all this chilly rain young men should be more careful, yes, he's very sorry …" Aya had asked Yohji to call all the parents of the soccer kids again, to tell them that Ken was still sick, and couldn't resume his coaching until the new year. It's what they'd been saying when the calls had started coming in a couple of days after Ken's disappearance—Yohji and Omi had fielded most of the calls to spare Aya, who, even for his taciturn persona, had been scarcely communicative in those days since Ken's disappearance. "Sorry, yes, it is that time of year, Okano-san, isn't it?" He dragged his mind back, missing all but the tail end of what the harried female voice on the other end seemed to be saying, in-between yelling at the noises of kids crashing around in the background. These calls were tedious and annoying, but Ken had been asking (absurd as it was, it was one of the things he'd apparently been obsessed with at the hospital), and Aya didn't want him worrying about anything more than was necessary. "Yes, Yamaguchi-san, he should have made proper arrangements before taking leave, and it is only because he is so ill … yes, I am sorry that we young people have no sense of responsibility …" Who knew soccer parents were this selfish and demanding?

Having to make all these calls after having to show that annoying woman—Tiffany, she even had a silly code-name--around, Yohji was feeling deeply sorry for himself and at what he'd had to put up with that day. That woman was as chilly as Aya when he'd first joined! _Poor Sakura_, thought Yohji, remembering the days when the young girl had followed Aya around, hanging on his every word when Aya clearly couldn't have cared less—although, wait, Aya was actually nice to Sakura sometimes, whereas that Tiffany woman had been downright unrelentingly nasty to him. _Poor me,_ thought Yohji then, feeling even sorrier for himself, if that were possible. He sniffed forlornly, making mournful, soulful eyes at a pretty young thing walking past the shop window, artfully blowing a piece of shining gold hair out of his eyes. He was gratified by the look in her eyes, and actually felt a little better when the sweet thing walked into a lamp post. He wondered if he should go out and help her up …

The voice on the other hand had become decidedly shrill, forcing him to pay attention to it and not his current sad circumstances. How _did_ Ken manage to deal with these people? "No, Seguchi-san, I am sure that Hidaka-kun didn't want your son's chances at a scholarship to be compromised …"

But at least the new girl—and it was so hard to think of her as even a temporary part of Weiss, because she so clearly _wasn't_--had said she'd had experience. According to Omi, she was even older than Yohji was—and she'd finally admitted, after no little effort on Yohji's part to engage her in something that might pass as conversation, over a cup of coffee at his favourite diner, that she'd been part of a two person team before. Takeda, Omi had said her name was, Marika Takeda, because she hadn't bothered to tell him, and wouldn't when asked, ignoring him easily, as easily as he'd been ignored always before Weiss, which had gotten his back up as nothing else could. He'd had to make an effort, a real effort to appear relaxed and charming. "Come on", he'd said, forcefully pasting on one of his laziest, most charming grins, "surely you can do better than that? I know there's some danger we might actually manage a civil conversation, but …"She hadn't so much as smiled. Frustrated, careless, and tense, he'd fallen back to ask the obvious, and something he'd actually wanted to know: "So … what made a nice girl like you end up in Weiss?"

Much to his surprise, she'd answered the clumsy question. "He died," she'd said, and those two words were enough. "He died." With eyes flat and empty, in a tone that quelled anything further Yohji might have said, any further questions he might have asked.

She'd had a partner, and he'd died, so Kritiker moved her to Weiss. Of course he'd died. Just like they thought Ken had. Kritiker's anonymous, covert teams weren't exactly in a low-risk business. Living to retirement, like Momoe, who had only been one of Persia's secretaries anyway … well, it was rare. Yohji was fairly sure Kritiker had a contingency plan to kill off agents that had passed their best before date, where the job hadn't managed to do it for them.

But as for his coffee date—and new teammate, and wasn't that three hundred and fifty kinds of wrong--the silence between them had been absolute. They'd finished up their coffee, and Yohji had gallantly paid the bill. She hadn't thanked him. For fuck's sake, she hadn't even given him her name.

Even before recent events, and despite them, Yohji could not imagine any of the others dying.

Yohji imagined the others dying every day.

And so Yohji prayed, every day, to gods he did not believe existed, that he'd be the first to die.

Yohji had been glad to escape when he'd finally managed to foist the chick off on Omi, who'd alternated between showing her the workings of the shop intricacies—the register, the accounts, blah blah blah--before sending her off on a number of deliveries--the last for some kind of function—engagement, or anniversary, or something--clear across town. And then Omi had disappeared to do whatever it was that Omi did, after clearly ordering Yohji to man the shop and … _wait_. He'd said the last meaningfully, and so Yohji had. And that had been almost an hour and a half hour ago.

So Yohji spent the rest of his very long shift _waiting_, while dealing with occasional mid-day customers and the even more incredibly irritating soccer parents—themselves irate, and occasionally concerned or some actually angry—explaining to them that they'd lost their soccer coach for the rest of the year. Yohji wondered what they'd do in a week or two, when they all began calling again. Pissy as the parents were, their kids adored Ken. Ken was an excellent coach, and these parents knew it. Maybe, in a few weeks and after the new year, they'd say Ken … moved? But—Ken would eventually come, back, and he'd want to coach again, presumably—wouldn't he?

What if … what if Ken couldn't come back to Weiss?

His mind reeled with the possibility, and he quashed it firmly. No sense thinking about it now, he told himself firmly. It just … wasn't. They'd figure it out. They'd figure something out. He'd make sure of it.

A sound in the basement distracted him.

Oh, joy. Now he would be the one to tell Aya that Omi wanted him to give up his room for the new girl—Omi reasoning that Ken would probably be most comfortable in his own room, with his own things—and then, when Yohji had looked skeptical, Omi had asked him flatly if he wanted to be the one to clear out Ken's room?

Thinking of the disaster-zone that Ken called a room, Yohji shuddered anew. Omi, as he very often did, had had a very good point. And Yohji certainly wasn't about to suggest giving up his own room.

Then he grinned. Actually, he thought, this could be kind of fun. He'd just bet this new girl had some kind of secret penchant for making things pink and frilly—didn't all girls? He chuckled with unholy amusement at the idea of the Abyssinian's stark, Spartan room covered in lace and fripperies—maybe even with frothy curtains and matching cushions. His smile broadened as he continued down to the basement.

Locking the front door and turning the sign to "Closed"—it was minutes to closing anyway—well, 78 of them to be precise, but whatever, Omi and the chick wouldn't be back until well after the shop was actually closed, he knew, and business was slow anyway--Yohji headed on down.

Tormenting Aya _had_ to be one of the world's greatest pastimes.

* * *

If Ken had been expecting everything to be fine once he got home, Aya had no such delusions. Ken had numerous cuts and bruises and burns, several open sores--some of which were already infected, and others of which needed to be watched closely--a strongly suspected kidney infection, bronchitis, a probable concussion, strained larynx, bruised spleen, and several cracked ribs—considerably increasing the risk of pneumonia, although being out of hospital would actually lower that risk--on top of his left leg. There was also the risk of sepsis, and the dehydration to contend with … Aya had been given a laundry list of Ken's injuries and condition, what to watch for and what to do, and with the major injunction to keep Ken calm and quiet. 

Aya had almost laughed at that. Keeping Ken calm and quiet was, under normal circumstances, akin to the Danaids trying to fill their barrel—ridiculous, ludicrous, and impossible, given Ken's nature. No matter how they drugged him--and when Ken had been badly injured in the past, Omi had never had any qualms about drugging him, ruthlessly injecting him with Demerol and morphine and Versed, and entirely ignoring any protest Ken might have made--these solutions had only kept Ken comfortable and compliant to a point. After all, this was _Ken_.

Aya acknowledged that while both blonds were actually fairly easy to tend to when ill or injured (Yohji, in fact, usually had the others vying to take care of him to get out of their shifts, because he made far better company, no matter how ill or in pain he was, than the fangirls ever could), he himself had at times been a somewhat less than ideal patient—but not even he could hold a candle to Ken. After a time, even tolerant and manipulative Omi would inevitably be forced to admit defeat to a mulish Ken. The Ken he knew hid pain, hated to take any medication no matter how benign, and couldn't be held in bed for longer than a few hour stretch by injury, illness, or death threats without a crowbar and three strong men, and then only if those men were also his assassin teammates who were also wise to his tricks. And even he wasn't so blinded by love to hope that Ken would listen to him, no matter how clearly he had stated his conditions--because they all knew that Aya's threats where Ken was concerned were completely idle.

Although, so far, except for the anxiety, Ken _had_ been quiet, docile and submissive. Eerily so. Disturbingly so. Aya, vainly searching for traces that the Ken he knew was still whole and intact, found he couldn't exactly be grateful for the obedience he'd asked for, and just hoped it was just because Ken _was _so drugged and out of it. Either way, Aya braced himself for the days ahead.

Aya took a deep breath. He hadn't realized how—tense—he'd been as well, at the hospital, while strangers poked and prodded at Ken and while he had been forced to sit and wait, helplessly. Doing something, even something as simple as driving Ken home—well, it was probably stupid. Ken needed more care, he knew, than they could provide a the shop. Aya glanced a look at Ken, who had fallen asleep at an odd angle in the passenger seat. Ken's expression was anxious and tense even in sleep, and his breathing was shallow and rasping in the silence of the car. And he was so, so thin and wasted, so unlike anything he'd ever thought of as _Ken_. Ken had always been slender—he'd worked at ensuring that his soccer player physique had always been perfectly toned and fit, despite the fact that he ate like a horse—but Aya well knew that underneath the baggy jerseys, Ken was solid, packed with pure muscle albeit sleek like a runner, all hard tensile strength over dense bone. Ken was never frail. Ken always reeked of health and strength and vitality. Loud and energetic, Ken had always seemed to epitomize the basics of life to Aya—born of earth, blessed by sunlight, running and jumping and yelling in the wind. Delicate was not a word he'd ever have associated with Ken. Not his Ken. But now he did—Ken was achingly fragile and weak, the former dark gold of his skin replaced with a pale translucency, and mottled with cuts and sores and ugly bruises. The days of starvation and inactivity had been days that Ken particularly, with his lean build and overactive metabolism, had been scarce able to afford.

At a stop light, Aya turned to take a better look at his dozing lover. His eyes were hollowed and darkly ringed, and the tangled mop of hair was no longer thick and silky soft, but a lank, brittle dull brown. The dark swelling of a sunken cheek was highlighted in the glaringly bright mid-afternoon sun, and there was a nasty cut from behind his ear to the base of his neck. But, in the realm of small mercies, there were no disfiguring cuts to scar Ken's face, and, as far as Aya could tell, nothing that would result in any permanent physical damage other than the rest of the scarring—provided the leg healed all right. It was a bad break, and made worse by not being treated for several days—and, probably moved around during that time as well. Aya didn't know how Ken would cope if he wasn't able to walk properly, or run, and he didn't want to think about it. More importantly, he didn't want anything to suggest to Ken that it might not heal properly, although he had no way of knowing what the doctors had already said to him. Hopefully, in the way of doctors, they'd been non-committal and vague enough that in his current state Ken hadn't been able to comprehend that possibility. He just didn't know how Ken would handle it, not right now.

And then they were home.

Aya quietly parked the Porsche beside Ken's tarp-covered motorcycle—Yohji had carefully polished the chrome and steel each morning, for the first few days, but had stopped and covered up the bike after Kritiker had confirmed Ken's death.

He turned to Ken, and laid a hand gently on his uninjured shoulder—leaving it firm when Ken startled under the touch. "We're home, Ken," he said, when Ken blinked confused and dilated eyes. "You're home."

Ken jerked the hand with the IV port still in, and Aya stilled it. Ken would need an IV, pumping him full of nutrients and antibiotics, for some time yet, despite how upset Ken was with it. It had been one of Aya's conditions on coming home—Ken didn't _really _need to know he'd been ordered to bring him and had had little choice about it. "This is going to take some doing, so I'm going to go in and get Yohji or Omi—hang here for a minute." Turning to open the car door, he missed the flash of fear in Ken's eyes.

"No," said Ken suddenly, determination in his eyes. "I can walk."

"No, said Aya, quietly, "You can't."

Mutiny was rising in Ken's eyes, and Aya, tired and wrung out himself, did not feel equipped to argue about this. So it began, he thought. He knew he had to be careful, knew that Ken was barely hanging on , but he couldn't really …

"Hey, you're home!" called Yohji. And Aya had rarely been more grateful to see the blond playboy than he was at that moment.

* * *

_End of Chapter 16. Thanks, as always, for reading. Reviews are always treasured._

_A/N: I realize this one was a bit short and a bit slow, but things will move along soon. _

* * *


	17. Chapter 17: Reclamation

_A/N: I'd resolved this year to try for monthly updates of this thing, and look, so far so good! This is February's update. Thanks to any of my very patient readers, and I hope you enjoy this bit. Still kind of slow, but it'll pick up soon. I hope._

_All disclaimers and warnings continue to apply; please refer to notes before the Prologue. I know, I know, some people have fabulous and totally hilarious disclaimers (one of SephLorraine's, for example, made me howl, and I thought, damn, I need to write disclaimers that good—good fic too, one of my favourites, and hmm, I think I'm babbling) but no, mine's dull. It applies anyway. _

* * *

Chapter 17: Reclamation

* * *

It took less than an hour for Aya to start seriously regretting his decision. Or, more precisely, Omi's orders. Cursing Omi was far easier than cursing himself. Or Ken. 

Ken hated hospitals, and Aya knew this, had known this, in fact, for a long time. It was no secret—they each had the little things that freaked them out, and for Ken, hospitals and fire were it. The fact that Ken had been told by white-coated staff that his parents had died and he was going to an orphanage, and the weirdly mottled and too-shiny skin over Ken's side and back after a strange treatment that Kritiker had subjected Ken to after the fire--both had something to do with it, although it was difficult to get Ken to talk about either, and so Aya had little information about any of it. What information he did have made him loathe Kritiker almost as much as he hated Takatori--but he'd chosen a path, and at this point all his alternatives were equally grim.

Driving home, with his Ken slouched still and pale and traumatized beside him, but smiling in wonder, Aya had thought it would be ok. Ken was whole enough, and he was alive, and he was coming home. Had smiled at Aya for that.

Aya could forgive much, could forget much, and could be grateful for a whole very much more as a result.

And initially—for _at least_ the first ten minutes--it hadn't been so bad. Ken seemed cheerful about being home, and while they all knew he was running on adrenaline alone, it had made them lighthearted while they'd unloaded Ken from the car, Omi tumbling down the steps to help. They'd even bantered, some: Yohji teasing Omi under his breath about his paranoia and endless sweeps for bugs as they rested in a corner of a stairwell, Omi's annoyed tones shushing Yohji; Omi directing them all to Ken's room, where he'd been making last-minute preparations (including some hasty cleaning, because Ken, as Omi said with his trademark innocent enthusiasm, apparently liked to adopt dustbunnies along with the rest of his kids); Yohji not so gently breaking it to Aya that the new girl was going to get his room, and that's what he got for living like a monk. Ken had almost smiled at the idea of Aya as a monk, and did smile at Aya's answering growl that Omi had _better_ have arranged for him to have a good chance to clear it out before "that girl" made it all pink and fluffy, and then Ken took a breath to say something, but coughed for a full minute instead, and then they'd stopped talking and concentrated instead on getting Ken up to his room.

But getting Ken upstairs and safely into bed was nothing less than an hour-long ordeal, and even banter fell away by the time they reached the last flight of stairs up to Ken's room. By that time Ken was gasping and clearly disoriented, despite his efforts at stoicism, even though he kept refusing, absolutely and vehemently refusing to let Aya or any of others carry him. Blood spotted the hospital scrubs Ken was wearing, and Aya wondered how many of the stitches had torn already.

"Please Ken," Aya had finally and shamelessly begged, "just up these last stairs."

Yohji had snorted, and opened his mouth to say something, but Omi kicked him in the shins.

But even panting, Ken had simply snarled back at him. "No, I can walk up the fucking stairs by myself," he'd said painfully, sort of half hopping slowly in that direction, one arm around Aya's shoulders, although in reality Aya was by then practically hauling him along by the waist, and Yohji was holding the crutches along with his other arm.

But the fact is, he couldn't. He just hadn't been able to, and in the end, Yohji and Aya played a painful and painstaking game of pretending they both weren't just dragging Ken vertically up the stairs, until a tearful and stressed-out Omi had ordered Aya, in a voice that none of them would disobey, to carry Ken, and Ken to let him.

And then Ken was finally, finally resting more-or-less peacefully in bed, despite the bloodied sheets and the fits of coughing and the oozing on re-wrapped bandages, despite the fact that his eyes were unfocussed and glazed with pain, despite the fact that Aya was close to screaming, snapping at Yohji and Omi when he was forced to address them at all. Yohji and Omi, glaring viciously at Aya and smiling insipidly for a visibly angry Ken, had both stormed off in a huff the second the IV was hooked up and everything was in place.

When they were gone, and everything was silent, Aya suddenly realized he had no idea what came next.

"Aya?" Ken's tentative voice broke the silence.

Aya grunted in response.

"I ... I'd like ... could you help me to the shower?" Ken's voice was not angry—but pleading, with a hint of desperation underlying the words.

_No._ Aya wanted to snap at him, wanted to yell; settled for shaking his head instead. It was the most restrained he could manage, because speaking was beyond him. He'd just brought Ken home, for fuck's sake, against all reason, it had been so stupid, such a stupid thing to do, because Ken, his Ken, aggressive and strong and active, had just been stitched together and patched together and shot with chemicals and wrapped in bandages, barely held together by grafted skin and thread and cloth and so fragile and he wanted ... just no.

"Please, Aya. It was so … dirty, and I ... I just wanted to come home and have a bath, but I can't ..." A desperate frustration laced the words, and Aya could see how much it cost Ken to have to ask. And it bothered him a lot, bothered him that Ken—who was normally so shy, embarrassed even now at the burn scars covering most of the left side of his body—had to ask. But Aya was exhausted, and had no idea how to assist Ken to take a bath; just then, he wasn't up to trying to figure it out.

But Ken was struggling to sit up, had managed almost to get his feet on the floor, despite the IV that was in his arm and the sheets that had been carefully tucked in to hold him in place ...

Why couldn't Ken just let things go, like anyone else would? Aya saw red. "What do you think you are doing?" he'd shouted. Aya moved suddenly forward, stopping just short of touching Ken as Ken flinched violently back, and both Ken and Aya froze. The IV needle swung free, and blood dripped from Ken's wrist, but neither of them moved. Ken was holding the bed frame in a white-knuckled grip, swaying and struggling to remain upright.

A sudden awkward silence fell over the room.

"I ... I just ... " Ken was struggling again to stand, failing miserably, but growing more and more agitated. Aya, moving over him to hold him in the bed, was at a loss. As weak as he was, Aya didn't even know why Ken hadn't just passed out already. Aya wished he just _would—_because when he woke up, Aya was somehow sure everything would be fine, and normal. That was what was supposed to happen, not this, not struggling with Ken who was …

_Yohji,_ Aya thought frantically . Yohji and Ken were friends. Yohji would know what to do. Yohji would help. Aya's mind clung to the thought desperately.

"Don't move. I'll return."

And Ken, who had been struggling against Aya only moments ago, froze and clutched at Aya's shirt. "No! Aya, no ... don't ... don't go ... I'm sorry ..." Aya tried not to hear the panic in Ken's voice. He just needed a moment to get away, and he needed Kudoh to get here and deal with this, this Ken that Aya didn't understand. He couldn't. Between the two of them, it had always been Ken who could deal with this emotional stuff, not him. And please, gods, he needed his Ken back. He needed his Ken back. And he would get Ken back. He would.

He clung to the belief to keep from screaming, or crying, or anything. In the meantime--in the meantime, Kudoh could get off his lazy ass and help. Aya practically pushed Ken back into the bed, before barking, "One minute," and then turning on one heel and practically sprinting out of the room. And if Aya noticed the sharp fear in Ken's eyes as Aya left the room, the door closing behind him, he knew Ken could only think he either didn't understand or didn't care. He left anyway.

* * *

Moments later, after a good deal of frantic yelling up the stairs, Yohji—albeit, a very pissed off Yohji--was there. Ken, true to his word, hadn't moved a muscle as Aya came back in, pausing in the doorway. Ken was possibly paler than before, although seeing him again even after a moment of being away was a new shock. He tended to forget … because part of him wanted to forget. 

Ken barely reacted when Yohji entered the room, and Yohji's eyes narrowed. Something was really off.

"So, what's up, Kenken?"

"Don't call me that." Ken's voice was dull.

"Sure, Kenken, sure." Yohji's tone was light and gently teasing. But Ken didn't respond.

Yohji took a moment to look Ken over where he lay in his bed, noting, with some shock, that even in the few days of absence—had it only been a couple of weeks?--the boy had lost a _lot _of weight, and all his muscle tone, leaving him with skin and bone and pitifully little else. No wonder Aya had whispered that Ken had been complaining of being cold in the hospital—there was nothing to him now. Sure, Ken hadn't ever had much excess flesh, despite a fairly stunning appetite …

Yohji suddenly and fondly recalled a happier day, when he and Omi had conspired together for a change, with Aya's tacit support, forcefully pre-empting the endless soccer games of a highly outraged but, in the face of both Omi and Yohji, laughingly ineffectual Ken--to watch the annual sumo tournament. Then, in the breaks between matches, and while cheerfully scarfing down Chinese noodles while Ken sulked ostentatiously in the corner, he and Omi began a serious and heated discussion about whether or not Ken could out-eat the legendary Chiyonofuji--much to Ken's further annoyance and Aya's only half-concealed amusement. Omi had readily taken up the defence of Ken's appetite, but Yohji had the training argument on his side, and if he recalled, the argument had been settled by … um, right, Ken, yelling and throwing cushions at both of them and slamming a door somewhere, and Aya, somewhat ruefully going after his lover after thanking the two of them for letting him share the noodles and the enjoyment of the game …

And that was such a change from the Ken before him now. For some reason, even though Yohji had seen Ken in the warehouse and again at the hospital, he'd somehow expected Ken to look, well, more like _Ken _once they'd got him home and into his own bed. They'd dressed Ken in his old, soft blue cotton pyjamas, because, well, Ken had always liked the ratty things and they'd thought it would make him more comfortable—but the pyjamas that had fit him fine just a couple of weeks ago now pooled loosely over the wasted frame. Ken looked small and weak and godawfully _young_ in the large bed. Like a kid in someone else's clothes.

Like a victim.

Even when Yohji had first met Ken, years ago—even as he'd been shocked by how _young _his two fellow assassins were—he'd never been small, or vulnerable, or weak. Quite the opposite: Ken had always been loud and strong and hungry and to Yohji's eyes, quite exhaustingly filled with energy and enthusiasm. Despite injury or illness, "victim" was just never a word he could ever associate with Ken. Not _their _Ken.

But the too pale skin—no longer tanned, hidden from the light for only two weeks—was flushed, and hot, flinching violently away even from Yohji's gentle, non-threatening touch. Yohji sighed. A sponge bath, a lukewarm one, was probably a very wise idea, and if he'd been thinking, Aya would have known that.

"You never came before." Ken's voice was abrupt, and oddly flat.

"Huh?" Yohji was confused. "Ken, I was just here ..."

"It was always Aya, or sometimes Omi, but Omi never said anything. And Aya always came, right before they came ... "

"Ken?"

I'm right here, Ken." Aya's voice interrupted sharply from the doorway, where he still hung back awkwardly.

"Oh." Ken looked up, his eyes cleared, and he flushed bright red. After an awkward moment, he mumbled. "Sorry, Yohji, I guess I just got confused."

Yohji glanced over at Aya, throwing him a concerned and inquiring look. Aya just stared back, impassive, pretending not to acknowledge the look, although Yohji knew Aya was as concerned and confused as he was. But Yohji could also see that Aya was about wrung out as well, and just couldn't deal with analyzing anything with Yohji, not right now. So. They needed to deal with Ken, first. Get him settled, and then. Then there would be time to process, to figure, to sort. Not now.

Yohji spoke into the silence, in his lazy, easy manner, calculated to set others at ease. "So, Aya here tells me you want a shower. I don't think that'll work, sweetheart."

"I'm not one of your women, Yohji!" Ken growled, suddenly upset and angry again. "And I don't see how you'll stop me. I don't need your help." And Ken suddenly started sliding down until his feet touched the ground, once again making as if to stand before the other two could pull themselves together enough to react. Predictably, he merely succeeded in falling heavily back down, Yohji in front of Aya lunging to break Ken's fall.

"What are you doing?" Aya's roar.

"Stop it, you jackass!" Yohji was more to the point.

And Ken, their hotheaded, fearless Ken, actually cowered away. And the suggestion of a sponge-bath didn't help at all.

So Aya had _compromised_--a word that had never been part of his pre-Ken vocabulary, but a word he was using all too frequently of late--and had taken another few hours, and between the two of them, they'd helped Ken sit on a chair in the shower stall, covered his cast and bandages, and Aya and Yohji had washed Ken's hair, rubbing him down a little with a soft cloth until he was finally more or less clean, albeit pale and shaking even with Yohji basically holding him up. But Ken had been thankful, and very grateful--especially as he knew Aya hadn't wanted to do it. And then Ken had kept apologizing and thanking them until Aya actually wanted to hit him, and so he'd let Yohji soothe Ken and said nothing despite the barely contained anger and reproach in Yohji's eyes.

After they'd gotten Ken settled again, Omi still abandoned downstairs to wait for and distract the new girl, Yohji had thrown himself into a chair beside the bed, while Aya had sat on the bed beside Ken, running gentle fingers through his hair.

"The kids are really safe, right?" Ken's voice was a thread of whisper. Aya cursed mentally. The bath really had been overdoing it.

"Go to sleep, Ken,", commanded Aya, but the harsh words were at odds with the tender gaze and gentle fingers stroking Ken's hair, soothingly over and over.

Yohji answered for him, his voice steady and patient. "Yes, Ken. I already told you we got them out."

But Ken was nothing if not persistent. "And Omi ... I haven't seen Omi. He's ok?"

Aya stopped stroking Ken's hair, wondering if the motion was distracting the younger man, discouraging him from the sleep he so clearly needed. But Ken's head moved restlessly again on the pillow, and his eyes opened again, fixing on Aya and closing only when Aya replaced his hand.

Yohji answered again from his corner. "He's fine, Ken. He's downstairs waiting for someone. He set up your room and your IV, remember? You need to rest now, all right?"

"You know, you know that Ko ... that the target had a partner we didn't know about? You got him too, right?"

"Yes, Ken. Go to sleep now." Aya's voice had a note of finality in it, but Ken didn't mark it, opening his mouth again. Aya wasn't sure why Ken was fighting so hard against sleep, but it was starting to annoy him.

"No. Stop talking, and go to sleep. I mean it, Ken." And to Aya's surprise, where he hadn't obeyed Aya's command, Ken obediently subsided at Yohji's words.

It hadn't taken long after that for Ken to fall asleep, and Aya settled in for a long night.

* * *

The night was longer than Aya had anticipated, longer than he'd been prepared for. It was a blessing that Yohji had stayed. After only a half hour, Ken shifted and woke, calling out for Aya before throwing up violently over himself and the bed. 

"All we've given him is glucose and morphine," muttered Aya, rubbing Ken's back gently as he vomited violently into the emesis bowl in front of him, the movements jarring the fractured collarbone and ribs. All that was coming up at this point was water and bile, not that Ken had eaten anything to come up in the first place.

"Shhh, Kenken," murmured Yohji from the other side, as Ken bit back a pained gasp, "easy, easy." Yohji turned to Aya, his voice lowered, "Don't we have him on a broad spectrum antibiotic too? He must still have some of those weird drugs in his system, it's probably reacting with something—did you ever get the test results at the hospital? He wasn't throwing up before."

Aya glared at Yohji, mostly because he was there, while bringing a limp and almost insensible Ken carefully back to lean against him. "I _know _that! And I didn't exactly have a chance to check before I left—you try dealing with bureaucrats on a timeline--and they told me Ken wasn't a lab priority. I'd have killed someone if it would've helped." Yohji knew Aya wasn't even kidding.

"Ken?"

But Ken was unresponsive, trembling and weak, his breathing raspy through his open mouth, and his skin clammy and cold. His eyes were open, but glazed and uncomprehending, and he remained as limp as a rag doll as Aya and Yohji cleaned him up and tucked him back underneath the covers, where he finally closed his eyes and went still.

As Aya rose from the bed, Yohji spoke in a low voice. "He can't take much more of this".

"You think I don't know that?" snarled Aya.

"I'm just saying, we'll have to take him back to the hospital soon if …"

"NO!" Ken's eyes were wide with terror and his voice fraught with panic. He was struggling wildly to sit up.

Aya glared at Yohji before going to Ken, putting one hand on his chest and pushing him gently back down, holding him there despite the weak struggles. "Pay no attention to Kudoh. He likes babbling nonsense. Rest now."

The struggles ceased—although Aya wasn't sure if that wasn't as much due to weakness as anything else--but Ken's gaze, fixed on Aya, was searing. "Don't go". A faint whisper, and a thin hand clutched desperately at Aya's shirt. Aya removed the hand gently, folding it back over Ken's chest, leaving his own hand on top and repeating the order.

"Rest. I'll stay with you."

"Please. No hospital. Promise me." The voice was raspy and the faint whisper was even weaker than before, and Aya cursed mentally. Yohji was right. Ken couldn't take much more of this, but for a ton of reasons, taking him back to the hospital at this point was simply not an option. At least, he didn't think so--but Omi had been … erratic, of late. But despite Omi, and despite all those reasons, if Ken's condition deteriorated … he didn't want to make Ken any promises he couldn't keep.

The door clicked, marking Yohji's exit.

"I'm not going anywhere. Sleep."

It took time, and more non-committal reassurances, before Ken finally agreed to close his eyes, before the tension in the thin frame succumbed to exhaustion and drugs. When Ken was finally asleep, Aya left the room, only to find Yohji waiting outside, smoking like a chimney. His expression remained lazy and relaxed, but Aya knew him as well as he knew Aya—tension and worry underlay the languid façade, and the droopy eyes looked sad and guilty.

Aya cut Yohji off before he could say anything. "I know, he said simply. I know."

* * *

Yohji had gone to bed then, while Aya stayed with Ken. As the night stretched on, the vomiting eased but Ken's fever spiked. Ken was delirious, and spent long minutes rambling: at times pleading, at other times overtly demanding that someone stop hurting him, alternatively insulting his assailant and all his ancestors, and then promising good behaviour if he'd only stop, if only they'd just kill him quickly; before moving on to bargaining with them for his teammates' safety and promising that he'd do anything they wanted in return, anything at all, and even offering horrifying suggestions of things he could do if they complied. At other times, Ken would speak to Aya alone: begging Aya to come and get him, screaming for Aya to run away, or babbling a stream of apologies for being caught, for being stupid, for obviously screwing up so badly that Kritiker wanted to get rid of him; for a list of things that were wrong and idiotic and crazy. The long hours had Aya close to breaking. There didn't seem to be anything he could do, anything he could give Ken, or anything he could say, and when Yohji wandered in, a few minutes after four, rumpled and groggy and knocking lightly before entering, Aya was practically sobbing himself, begging Yohji to help. 

And this was how he found himself downstairs an hour later, making a cup of tea and bringing up towels, while Yohji took over, gently but firmly forcing Ken to drink some bright yellow sports drink, deciding Aya needed food and Ken to be changed. Aya remembered he'd planned to change Ken hours ago, he really he did, but he just didn't have the energy, didn't have the strength, and shame-facedly, he'd obediently followed Yohji's directions to lift Ken and turn him and undress him at the appropriate times, as they changed bandages and dressed wounds and washed a struggling, shivering Ken down with washcloths soaked in cold water and a touch of alcohol, Aya trying his best to tune out the gasping protests and pathetic pleas for them to _stop, please, please_, before they settled him back into bed.

"Please," Ken begged. "Please stop. It's too cold. I'll be good ... please …" And Aya paused, looking helplessly to Yohji.

"Shhh, Kenken," Yohji soothed easily, frowning at Aya irritably while motioning him to continue, "I know this is uncomfortable, but you'll feel better soon, I promise."

"No, please, just leave me alone for a little while, and then I won't be any trouble to you, I swear …"

But Yohji was firm--both with Ken and Aya. And before Yohji left, Ken's fever was down, and Ken seemed to be sleeping easily enough. Yohji had re-attached the IV while Aya just sat in the chair beside the bed, spent, before turning around and fixing Aya was a disapproving frown.

"Go to bed, Aya," Yohji had said, still frowning. "You're not doing him any good as you are. I'll sit with him."

"No."

"Aya ..."

"No."

_"Aya_," said Yohji, gently. "Go to sleep. I won't leave him alone. I promise."

Aya didn't say anything for a minute. The silence stretched, and then Aya's voice, rough with exhaustion, asked, "Do you know what he asked me, when we were alone, at the hospital?"

Yohji shook his head.

"He asked me how come we'd come, after all. Why Kritiker had let us. I was sitting in the hospital, wondering how to tell him how sorry I am that it took us so long to find him—and before I could say anything, he started apologizing about how sorry he was to take us away from all the work we had—it must have been so hard, he said, running after him in the middle of a mission and everything else, especially because he knew that Kritiker had forbidden us to come—Kobayashi had told him, he said, Kobayashi knew all about Manx and Persia and Weiss and even Crashers, for fuck's sake—told him that Kritiker knew exactly where he was, and he wondered why Persia had changed his mind. And then he asked me why we'd taken him back with us anyway, when the protocol clearly was to kill him, and that would've been ok. And I don't know what else he'd been planning to say, because I was so stunned, too stunned to tell him that we didn't _have _any other missions while he'd been gone and that all we did was search for him because no one told us where he was—but then when he said that all I could do was start yelling that I didn't give a flying fuck about what Kritiker did or did not tell us to do--and then he got even more upset, and told me to be quiet and that I couldn't say that. That I shouldn't say that. Because I had to think of Aya."

It was more or less true, Yohji thought, although he was as horrified as Aya. Aya always had made his priorities and necessary loyalty to Kritiker crystal clear to everyone. Even Ken. Ken had once told Yohji, alone in the shop, that Aya's sister was the most important thing in the world to Aya, and Ken didn't really mind being second to that—how could he mind such a thing? And Yohji could only shake his head at the very very odd nature of his teammates' relationship before he directed his mind back to the girl he was going out with that night--who was still on the other end of his phone and who had been describing, for the last 10 minutes, everything she'd bought earlier that day, and how much it had cost, and what a _bargain_ it had all been. Yohji had absently murmured an almost enthusiastic, "That sounds great!" into the phone, but when he'd looked up again, Ken had gone off to deal with some very adamant and stupid fangirl who'd decided she wanted freesia right _now_, even though they were completely out of season then.

And another part of Yohji was horrified for an entirely separate reason: How had Kobayashi known of Kritiker, and more to the point, how did Kobayashi have any idea that Kritiker had forbidden Weiss to look for Ken?

He had no response for Aya, nothing to comfort him with, so instead, he capitulated. "Fine. But if I check on you again and you've lost it, I'm replacing you. Ken doesn't need this from you right now."

And after Yohji left, Aya had sat there, staring blankly at Ken, who was finally, finally sleeping quietly, although his features were still tense with pain. And Aya finally gave up. He climbed into bed with Ken, mindful of broken bones and lacerations, adjusting the younger man gently, carefully against him. And Ken sighed, and leaned into him a little, and Aya didn't think he was flattering himself that Ken's features relaxed, just a fraction.

And despite the awkward, uncomfortable position he was lying in, Aya slept.

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_End of Chapter 17. Thanks, as always, for reading. Reviews are always treasured. (and yes, real plot is coming. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow … but eventually)._

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